" It feels unusual to give this thing such a high rating. I remember the beginnings of almost all of his novels surpassing the endings as far as my interest in King's writing goes. Maybe I just prefer open-ended scenarios a lot more, whether it be with film or literature, and he tends to try to wrap the plot up at seemingly arbitrary points in the story. His endings are hyperbolically ridiculous too. Anyway, what I remember so vividly about this story was the insane suburban slaughter at the beginning. One second two children are in a convenient store, and the little kid is looking a magazine with Ethan Hawke on the cover, thinking about sex, then him and his sister return to their neighborhood. Lazy summer day, etc. Suddenly a barrage of several brightly covered cars rip through unleashing a storm of bullets on the houses, killing most of the neighborhood. I know, most of the appeal of it lies in the cheap shock value inherent in the juxtaposition of the tranquil American suburb with the violent tumult of an inner city shootout.
Naturally, there are the handful of survivors (so typical of the whole King oeuvre) that join together, find strength in numbers, and attempt to battle the sudden mysterious evil that is terrorizing them. I'd have to read it again, which probably will not happen for some time. If I had to admit it, I'd say that everything that King had written under the Bachman pseudonym was by far more interesting than his more popular books. Especially, the earlier stories which, from what I recall, he wrote in his drug addled college days. Out of all of his books (and there are just fucking way too many), this is the material that comes closest to experimental fiction. Of course, many of his rambling epics could be seen in the same light. Or it could also be because he has a tendency to especially not omit anything inessential.
I don't know why I'm writing about this right now.
Unfortunately, I spent a majority of my grade school days reading only Stephen King. I'm thankful to my mother in many ways because when I would see her with one of this things in her hand, my curiosity usually got the best of me. I wasn't exactly precocious as far as literary, or even book related taste was concerned, but reading King was the germination of my relationship with books. More importantly, watching my mother read was. I would like to thank both of them for that. I suddenly feel nostalgic for those days in the suburbs of northern Illinois, and the sweltering, humid heat. Going to the library in the summer when I was younger was the closest was the closest thing to a religious experience for me.
I sometimes wish that I would never have become distracted by all of the sex, drugs, and rollerblading that I loved in my youth. Sooner or later I knew that these things would take me out of my sleepy, sun-filled bedroom. That the peacefulness of reading alone in my room would be interrupted by all of that fun-sounding adolescent life to be had. Not everyone does this. If I had to, then I might blame it on a hyperactive short attention span. (What's with the fucking double adjectives, Cline?) And what was that parenthetical thing you just did? Maybe I'm just trying to say that distraction is very ephemeral company in life. "
— Jimmy, 2/11/2014