I’m about a hundred pages into Cell by Stephen King. It’s pretty good. Probably I am not enjoying it as much as I should be. Two reasons for that are The Colorado Kid and From a Buick 8.
I enjoyed those two books for most of the way, too. And near the end of each I got the same queasy, I’ve-been-had feeling when I realized that the ending, the conclusion of the story, would not be forthcoming. These two books had no ending.
Now, far be it from me to tell the author his business. Write what you want to write, I say. But when I’m reading a book and enjoying it, there is a reason that I don’t force myself to stop with fifty or a hundred pages to go. That would be a waste of time, would it not? It’s for that same reason that I don’t appreciate getting to the end of a book and finding out that the story needs another fifty pages and won’t be getting them.
So, having been bee-stung twice over by Mr. King, I find myself hoping it won’t happen again. And if there’s anything I hate more than having my time wasted, it’s having to resort to hope as if it were a good thing and not the evil delusion I know it to be.
Okay, Steve. Ball’s in your court. I once fought down the strong impulse to fling Sphere by Michael Crichton across the room because he bailed on me when it was time to pay me back for the time and attention I had squandered on him. Don’t make me want to do that again. I beg you.