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Remember that girl back in high school? The one who came from a strange family and wore ugly clothes and never fit in and always got picked on? So did Stephen King.
Carrie, King’s first novel, is about that girl—except Carrie is a little different. She’s got a special power that makes her case extraordinary. And when she decides that she’s had enough of the laughter and teasing, well, it’s all over.
If there’s one thing that I’ve learned through my previous experience with Stephen King novels, it’s this: never, ever read them at night—especially if you’re alone. So I frantically read Carrie in the middle of the afternoon—while sitting in the glaring sun—just to make it a little less dark and haunting.
Something in me has a strange relationship with Stephen King. Whenever I read one of his novels, I find myself flying through them—not only because I can’t put them down, but also because I want to finish so I can read something uplifting. Yet I keep running to the bookstore and buying them. I keep wanting more.
Carrie set King’s style—his horribly (yet oh-so-wonderfully) graphic way of writing that makes you picture every gruesome scene. He’s got a way of putting his readers inside his characters. Carrie (the character) comes to life—so much that she’ll make you wish you’d been nicer to that girl in high school.
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