It's not you; it's me.
Really...I hate to let you go, after all, you were my first author-love. At age 13 I picked up Nightmares and Dreamscapes and I was hooked. You drew me into a completely new world. A dangerous one that I hid from my parents. My first "secrets."
As soon as I had the money, I began collecting your books (and I'm embarrassed to say, stealing the older ones in paperback from the library). Over the years I was obsessed with reading everything your pen put to paper. My friends gave me crap about my single-mindedness, but I knew you and I were connected. We had something special they just didn't understand.
As in all relationships, we had our ups and downs -- you had some greats (The Stand, The Dead Zone, Hearts in Atlantis) and some serious stinkers (Insomnia, Regulators/Desperation). I didn't let it bother me - I knew that everyone has their faults, and I forgave you.
I saw you once in person when I was in college - you drove your Harley onto the stage and I knew what it was to get hot for someone I admired and respected. You did not disappoint. Totally the highlight of my Freshman year. I'll never forget that moment.
This is so hard for me to say, but we've grown apart. I'm sure you've noticed it too - how could you not? I've gotten older, found more interests. I've come to realize that death is no laughing matter and we're all too close to it as it is; I just don't want to read about gratuitous violence, no matter how creative and slightly amusing. I no longer carry a vision of my own immortality. I know death can be ugly. I don't need the adjectives from you to draw the pictures for me.
We just don't have anything in common! I thought I'd give it one last try and I picked up "Under the Dome." I tried to read it, I swear. I really, really did! But I have to confess, I only made it to into the 70s...I even scanned ahead, hoping to get drawn back in...and I was so disappointed when all I saw was more of the same. (Misunderstood, outsider hero. Large, mean, stupid bad guy, who I assume later is discovered to be just the little bad guy and there is a much worse one in the plot. Oodles of blood...you know. The usual.)
I'm sorry, but I just can't do it anymore. I need authors with more meat in their stories than just appendages being cleaved off. I need more emotion than fear, hate and loathing. When you write well, it's a dream come true. I miss the feelings you gave me when I first picked up "Nightmares." Maybe it's not fair of me to put that on you, but it's for the best that I move on.
I packed up your things. What I didn't sell or donate, I left in a box in my basement. Feel free to come pick them up.
Just call first.