Sometimes, when I look away for a moment, the devil creeps in and pulverizes my defenses so I can’t resist when I see a Shaun Hutson novel. Normally, I try to stay the hell away from Hutson, not because he is scarier than King or that I am spooked by the things some of these people write but because I feel guilty when I read American fiction. I mean, what about! There are great Ugandans and Kenyans writing banging stories and I am here reading about some crazy guy called Thad Beaumont?
Anyway, about Hutson, after reading him this week, I was trying to post something about the unfairness of life no matter what station one is in life. About being stalked by bad luck no matter how hard you try to be good to the world; the senseless crashes on the Ugandan roads, the gory abortions in dimly lit back street clinics, where scared girls have no one to turn to because they’ve fallen pregnant; having to slave for an unapreciative system, which gives back less than 10% of what you put in while the top dogs spend their time philandering on the Riviera…
I just read Captives, not a very good story (I have the feeling that this dude is always going to be in the shadow of the American Stephen King). It’s like he has to bang it onto our heads that his trademark is the disembodied eye dangling from an optical nerve. Totally gross. Totally unoriginal.
Actually, I have always been a Stephen King follower. I have read every one of his books that I came across like it was a law set by the powers that be. When I start reading a “horror” novel, subconsciously I search for mentions of Derry, Maine. That’s where all the crazy things happen, right? I want to read something spooky along the lines of Christine or Pet Sematary. So when I get a book that feels like the writer had a good idea which bored him along the way, yet the publisher was giving him grief to finish the damn thing so he decided to give it any kind of ending, I start missing good ol’ Stevie. Hutson should make up his mind; does he want to write horror or violent fiction?
Nevertheless, the story almost inspired a post. I wanted to write something deep like I am a reincarnation of Minega or this guy or good old Undo. (Say what happened to Jane?) I wanted to be better than these ass-kickers in this post. I wanted to sound as sophisticated as Angelo does when he is on radio or stressing some point about the dirt in our intellidence services. When I started typing, the idea started feeling ridiculous and continued downward from there until I pressed Ctrl + A and Delete. It had become that bad.
So now I am back at one. And you don’t have to point out that I just used a bad cliché again.