Being Me.

The Horror Of Being A Stephen King

You know, I have been Stephen King for as long as I can remember.

My mum named me—Stephen. It’s a nice, soft name. Maybe too soft—like me. I’ve never heard of any superheroes called Stephen. You don’t feel threatened in any way when someone named Stephen introduces himself.

Now… Steve, that’s a cool name that rips off on a 1940’s motorbike, dodges bad guys, and jumps great wire fences. That’s a name that carries well-toned weight with the ladies. Oh Steve! That tall, dark, handsome devil of a guy…

No, I was never Steve. Don’t abbreviate me. Don’t call me Steve.

And the King… well, that’s my dad’s. The Kings are a Scottish clan—a sub-clan, or sept, of the MacGregors. My mum is a MacLeod. We’re just a bunch of ragged Scots, I suppose.

So, “Stephen King”, back when I was born, was a pretty good name. It wasn’t taken. Not at the time.

See, there’s me—Stephen King. And then, there’s him—Stephen King. By him, I don’t mean my barely-contained split-personality. I mean the other him, the other Stephen King.

The horror guy.

For clarity (and I’ll admit, not a small amount of personal satisfaction) let’s call him Stephen Horror. Because, let’s face it, it just works.

Maybe that’s just me being petty. Actually, I know it is just me being petty. I suppose being a disappointment doppelganger brings out the petty in me.

Okay, so there’s me, Stephen King, and there’s Stephen Horror. We good?

Okay.

Stephen Horror was just a mere no-name college student when I broke into the scene. I mean, when I was born. I was a scene-breaking baby. And I wasn’t named after him. No, indeed.

It’s true that my mum was a tarot reader, and by all accounts, a pretty good psychic, so maybe she was playing a little future joke on me—ha ha mum, you got me!

Life was pretty good, name-wise. No jokes. No mistaken identity.

Someone once thought I was Tom Hanks, but that’s a story for another time. But… I mean, really? Tom Hanks? I suppose he’s funny. Who am I to judge?

I started my career in my teens as an artist—an illustrator, to be precise. I also dabbled in screenwriting, because my mind works in visual. No, I think I liked the idea of only needing to write ninety pages. Easy right? But alas, I never could quite complete even one. I think I still have a half-dozen or so partially chewed ideas lying around.

But as the art took off, the writing went on the back burner. And then the back burner was turned off. Safety first.

No, it wasn’t until I started to have success as an illustrator of fiction books, back in the oh, somewhere in the Victorian era I think… I don’t know, somewhere in the 1900’s for sure. Let’s just call it even at a long time ago—that’s when the ‘trouble’ started.

See, as an illustrator, it turns out that I had to visit art directors. At publishers.

Well, I had an agent in London, but he was a lazy %&^&# and did virtually nothing for his thirty percent. So—I took to the streets myself.

Let me tell you. You haven’t really lived until you’ve tried navigating London during rush hour carrying a full-size portfolio case.

I tried my best spy moves and jumped into an underground train just as the doors were closing—only to get my portfolio and my arm firmly trapped in the sliding doors.

Bond on his worst day never had this trouble.

The English guy standing in front of me, cool as a cucumber on ice, must have seen the panic on my face. He looked me in the eye and said, calmly:

“It’ll open again.”

And lo and behold—it did. Yay. Turns out, I didn’t lose my arm or my folio of original art in some freak accident. English guy was my hero.

Now, for my work, I had to read—ahem, skim—the manuscripts I illustrated covers for. But I was not a reader. I’m still not.

I don’t like reading fiction—funny eh? I prefer facts. My mind makes up enough fiction, I think.

I’m not that keen on other people’s artwork either. Maybe I’m just a snob?

Actually, I think the last book I read was The Lord Of The Rings—and only because I had read The Hobbit and got conned into thinking it’d be more of the same fun adventure. I think Tolkien was going through some ‘personal stuff’, because my god, LOTR was a struggle. I can confirm that there is a real physical limit to how much dwarven song lyrics and patriarchal lineage a man can take in before his brain liquifies.

But, the point being: I’d never read a Stephen Horror story. Still haven’t.

I know, I know. What sort of self-respecting Stephen King doesn’t read Stephen King? I probably should, but what can I say? Just not much of a reader.

Anyway—with two big black grease marks down my white (yes, WHITE) jacket from the underground door incident, my first stop was the publisher Harper Collins—a huge building in the center of town.

I confidently crept in, portfolio in hand, ruined jacket folded under my arm, and introduced myself.

The reception lady asked me to take a seat.

Minutes later, another young lady approached and again, verified who I was, and that I did indeed want to meet with the art director.

I said, “why yes, of course” trying to sound friendly—but I invariably come off as aloof and irritated.

That young lady seemed truly anxious. She practically ran up the stairs, leaving me standing, a little concerned that maybe a fire had broken out somewhere and should I run too?

I sat again.

A few moments later, an older woman rushed up and eagerly shook my hand. It was Mr King this and Mr King that. I felt like, well, royalty.

What was going on? I think I’d already done a few covers for them—did they really like my work that much?

These people really know how to treat no-name illustrators off the street! Tea and biscuits, the whole shebang.

I was shown up to a huge suite that could easily have been used in any Bond movie—very appropriate I thought, given my underground action-hero background.

In walked the art director—one of many, I assume—incredibly English, suave, polished, and smarmy, all rolled into one prefect arch villain to my Bond.