Stephen King is the author that has meant the most to me. There are entire shelves in my bookcase displaying solid black spines bearing the same name: Stephen King. King was the first writer whose authorship I discovered and devoured. King was the first writer that made me think that I could do this too. That statement is by no means meant as a slight to the talents of King. On the contrary. Through his writing King demonstrated that it is possible to put your ideas to paper and make them work.

Stephen King has a new novel coming out at the same time as he is releasing a collaboration with John Mellencamp and T Bone Burnett. And he is featured in the latest issue of TinHouse.

When I opened TinHouse and began reading, I realized, before I had even finished the first paragraph, that it felt like a homecoming. I felt safe to once again be surrounded by the words of Stephen King. King has a warmth to his language that is rarely mentioned. Reading a novel or a short story by Stephen King is like stepping into a dark womb that you know will scare you, exhilarate you, but still, among all the horror and twisted realities, it embraces you and makes you feel safe. Safe to be frightened by the worlds created by King and safe to attempt what he does so brilliantly.

In the words of my friend, the Australian: I shall return.