Sleeping Beauties

I don't really read Stephen King any more. I read a lot of his early stuff when I was younger, but eventually lost patience as the books got thicker, more baggy, and ended abruptly, almost nonsensically, as if he woke up one morning after typing hundreds of thousands of words and said, “I'm bored now”. Very frustrating as a reader having waded through so much to realise that it wasn't really taking you anywhere.

So it was with some trepidation that I picked up this huge, 700 page monster. And, unfortunately, it was more of the same. But worse. It seems the influence of Owen King not only failed to add some much needed plotting and structure, but also took away a lot of what makes his father so readable: good writing.

There was so little to enjoy here. Characters were bland and one dimensional, the writing workaday, and the plot incredibly simplistic. Clearly this was supposed to be some riff on sexism, misogyny, feminism and the modern world, but other than a few vague paragraphs it didn't really discuss the issues in any depth.

Amazingly, in the acknowledgements at the end of the book the Kings thank an editor who culled the book down from “ a much larger manuscript”. I have nothing but sympathy for her.