Early in his career Stephen King's publisher discouraged him from issuing more than a book a year. He solved the problem by inventing an alter-ego, Richard Bachman, whose manuscripts were said to have been discovered after his death by his wife. He was also curious as to whether his success was merely luck. Unfortunately, the ruse was discovered after seven books, which King believed insufficient time to properly assess the issue. Sales of the books skyrocketed as soon as it was discovered King had written them. Thinner was the fourth in line. I just finished it, the first time I've sampled his work. I chose it above all the others a woman had donated because it was the shortest, coming in at just over 300 pages, which I maintain is the right length for any thriller. I really enjoyed it. The prose and dialogue were solid and the story was engrossing. He left the ending up to the reader's imagination. I would have preferred something more definitive. At one point, he lampooned himself, saying the story was as outrageous as any done by Stephen King. He characterized Bachman's inevitable demise as "cancer of the pseudonym."
When I first thought of becoming an author, my goal was to write the Great American Novel. I wanted to be acknowledged not as a writer but as an artist, someone who did only meaningful work. I believed popular works such as King's were beneath me. All these years later, hopefully much wiser, meaning eludes me (is that some sort of oxymoron?). I'm not sure there is any broader meaning to life than that which an individual ascribes to it. I wanted to create works that rang with universal truth and lasted centuries, not ones that provided the instant gratification of light entertainment. Now I wonder if such works are just as important, given that they help people get through life's journey, its bittersweet mystery. Of course, this may simply be the rationale of a failed artist, one who came up woefully short. There is no comfort in the unknown, of wondering how one's life work will be viewed long after death. It smacks of delusion. Popular writers know they have touched millions of lives. That is a great accomplishment.
On a scale of five, I rate Thinner three-and-a-half.
Thanks to Susan, who again bought several books, my only sales of the day. She said books are her only vice. She learned practicality from her father, who grew up during the great depression. He was so practical, in fact, that his first birthday gift to her when she was a young wife was a mop. During good years it would be a pot. Those old-timers were a different breed.
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