Not really a book review.

Sorry, this isn't completing the assignment but it is all I could get down tonight.

Being much older and louder, I hoped to intimidate the stupid teacher. I had carefully protected my son all his life and Mr. Frindle was going to apologize for defeating my efforts.

“How dare you show Pet Sematary to seventh graders?” I harrranged.

“Well, it is ed . . “ he blurted before I cut him off.

“If you are going to say that movie is educational, don’t waste my time.”

“But, you don’t understand, watching it was optional, “ he stammered.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I told the kids that if they didn’t want to watch Pet Sematary or they thought their parents wouldn’t approve, they should just close their eyes and put there heads down!”

Of course, from that point on Stephen King has looked like Mr. Frindle to me. I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover how bright and engaging Mr. King reveals himself to be in Stephen King, On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft. He has made millions with his successful career and Mr. Frindle is still just a teacher.

Reading this part autobiography and part how-to book, I had to respect Mr. King’s professionalism. I had been prejudiced against the horror genre enough to think that he must have just scribbled down his nightmares after a hard night of partying and too much quacamole. I had committed a librarian’s ultimate crime, I had judged his books by their covers.