The night I met Stephen King

Some thirty years ago I heard that Stephen King would be giving a workshop at UMPI, in Presque Isle, Maine.   At the time I was the library manager in the village of Florenceville, a short hours drive away.   I had read his works to that date; Carrie, Salem’s Lot, the Shining and The Stand   and was anxious to meet the author.

I called the University to register; they explained that there had been a mistake.  This really was a course lecture and they expected about five hundred students.  However, since they had publicized, I could audit.  In vain I tried to persuade one of my friends to accompany me.

That cold January night saw me drive to Presque Isle.  As I checked into the motel, I had decided to spend the night, the temperature suddenly became warmer.  Soon I went to the dining room to have an early supper.  I was astonished to see that it was snowing furiously.  Ordering a coffee, I sat by the windows wondering how much snow would accumulate.  Staff turned on the radio to a local station. Soon there was an announcement that all evening classes at UMPI were cancelled, including the guest lecture by Stephen King.  I was devastated, I ordered a drink.

Lost in my pity party, I was vaguely aware of the server at my table.  “Miss”, he said “Are you here to see Stephen King?”   I replied to the affirmative.  “Then, Mr. King invites you to join him in the private dining room.”   I followed with no hesitation.  When the doors were shut and my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting I realized that I was one of just seven who was joining Stephen King.”  Food and drink was on him, however most of us were so awestruck we consumed little.  The opening question was “How did you become a writer?”  



King replied that he had been a high school English teacher, married with three small children. They had no medical insurance and every time one of the children needed to go to the doctor, the hospital or get a prescription; his wife would say “Write a story”.   And he would churn out a story featuring a scantily clad, ravaged female and a monster which in turn would be sold to a men’s magazine.    One year at a teacher’s conference King signed up for a workshop The English teacher as a writer.  His fellow teachers chided that he was no writer.  King replied that he wrote purple prose. 

That was not acceptable, so the challenge was given that to be a true writer his novel must meet several conditions.  The main character must be a teenage girl, she had to commence her menstruation, attend the prom and she had to be bullied.  King told us that he had great fun researching the novel, he hid in the girls wash rooms, he schlepped around the halls and by the next conference, Carrie was a reality.

The storm swirled outside; we were warm and cosy and lost in Stephen King’s trance.  At that time, long before his accident, King was big, dark and burly, possessed a hypnotic voice – the quintessential story teller.  He told us of how when he was buying car parts and researching Christine;   he was attacked by the dog who planted the seeds for Kujo.

 When asked why he wrote such horrific stories, King regaled us with tales of real life horrors and asked “Are mine any worse”?  That evening is long ago and far away. I seldom speak of it.  And No one asked me how I met Stephen King.