I have a complicated relationship with Stephen King novels. From an objective gaze, he is undoubtedly a fantastic writer, who uses voice and language intentionally and effectively. The relentless tension building in The Shining (the novel) through quick POV shifts and repetitive ominous phrases like “I’ll give you your medicine” and “unmask, unmask” are hugely effective writing techniques that create a deliciously agonizing read. Great horror fun for all…or is it?
Because if I read a King novel from a subjective, or more specifically female, gaze, the universal-appeal scale starts to tip.
King explores a lot of universal themes in his writing, particularly parental fear in The Shining. Am I going to screw up my kid? Can I protect them from harm (or evil entities)? Every parent everywhere can relate to this (maybe not the evil entity part, but you catch my drift). Even non-parents can understand the motivations of a fearful parent. Universal themes give a novel mass appeal and make a book far more marketable in any genre. And extra kudos go out to King for pulling this off in horror, which is frequently frowned upon by the publishing and literary powers that be. So, there’s a lot to learn, as a writer, from King’s use of voice and pacing and theme…but there’s more to his success when you put on your girl glasses.
The additional layer to his successful techniques is this: Stephen King’s novels share a common theme. My girl gaze first noticed King’s specific brand of universal theme when I read Pet Sematary. I’d seen every movie version, but I hadn’t read the source material until recently. And when I did I noticed an eye-opening difference between the movies and the novel that broke open some meaning-of-life level understanding of why King is one of our biggest bestselling authors. The revelation is this: He relinquishes, especially, the male characters from responsibility for their horrific actions.
In The Shining, Danny and Wendy both state quite clearly on the page “this is not Daddy”, implying the hotel is attacking them, not Jack. Even though Jack is a recovering alcoholic who has hurt Danny before and is quite capable of doing it again, they wholeheartedly believe and make sure to tell the reader several times that a husband and father would never hurt his family intentionally. No, it’s the supernatural entity forcing him to be bad. The man is not bad, it’s the thing possessing him that he has no control over that’s bad. This releases the character, and vicariously the (primarily male) readers from guilt or responsibility for the terrible acts they commit.
Not drinking the Kool-Aid yet? Well, here’s another cupful. In the movie versions of Pet Sematary, the viewer is afraid of the undead creatures that spring forth from the cursed land, but we’re also quite aware that Louis is grief-stricken and his actions are that of a desperate father trying to put his family back together after a tragedy. We understand that his decision to bury his dead child in a cursed cemetery is one of desperation. He’s not thinking straight because of the grief. Understandable, yes, but he’s still ultimately culpable for the carnage and devastation that ensues in the aftermath.
It’s a relatable predicament he gets himself into, for sure. As a viewer I definitely left questioning whether or not I’d want my loved ones back if they were “different”. But when I read the novel version of the story, I started to get annoyed with our man Louis. Because he wasn’t making desperate choices out of grief. The cemetery was making him make choices. As he scales an impossibly steep muddy hill in the dead of night carrying the corpse of his son, he can’t help but think why am I doing this? It can’t be my grief getting the best of me. No, it’s the thrall of the evil cemetery making me do it.
And presto chango, all responsibility for his terrible decision making is gone. Poof!
Old Jud gets off the hook in the novel version too. He doesn’t want to tell grief-stricken Louis about the curse cemetery’s ability to resurrect the dead, but he can’t help it. The cemetery makes him, too, act against his fully intact good nature. Alakazam, he’s off scot free too!
Now, I don’t point this out to make some sort of feminist stand against Stephen King’s body of work. On the contrary. I applaud him for this most insidious of author branding: claiming a universal theme. Authors like Freida McFadden and Gillian Flynn have also rode their specific brands of universal theme all the way to the bank. It’s one of those tricks that the average reader won’t consciously notice, but subconsciously it’s what keeps them coming back for more and more books.
So, what is your universal theme as a writer or even as a reader? What part of a reader’s psyche do you want to feed, or are good at feeding? If you write Frieda McFadden-esque domestic thrillers, your universal theme might be us girls need to stick together. If you write romantasy, it might be love conquers all…even dragons.
If you aren’t sure what your specific brand of universal theme is as a writer, make a list of things all the stories you’ve written have in common and another list of commonalities in your protagonists. Is there a pattern to find? A reason for readers to keep coming back for more of the same but just a little different? Whether you write in one genre or many, exploring a universal and consistent theme throughout your catalogue is how you build a loyal readership...I think/hope. And loyal readership factors into the creation of a blockbuster writing career…I think/hope.
XO
B
