Cliffhanger ending aside, the story seems fine to me, but, as always, not much like the other ones I write. The manuscript is a brick, over 800 pages long, and I created said brick in just a little over three months.
Un-fucking-real.
Once again, hardly any strike-overs or re-takes. There are a few continuity glitches, but considering the length of the book, I can hardly believe how few. Nor can I believe how, when I needed some sort of inspiration, the right book seemed to fly into my hand time after time. Like The Quin-cunx, by Charles Palliser, with all the wonderful, growly 17th-century slang: "Aye, so ye do" and "So ye will" and "my cully." That argot sounded perfect coming out of Gasher's mouth (to me, at least). And how cool it was to have Jake come back into the story the way he did!
Only thing that worries me is what's going to happen to Susannah Dean (who used to be Detta/Odetta). She's pregnant, and I'm afraid of who or what the father might be. Some demon? I don't think so, exactly. Maybe I won't have to deal w/ that until a couple of books further down the line. In any case, my experience is that, in a long book, whenever a woman gets pregnant and nobody knows who the father is, that story is headed down the tubes. Dunno why, but as a plot-thickener, pregnancy just naturally seems to suck!
Oh well, maybe it doesn't matter. For the time being I'm tired of Roland and his ka-tet. I think it may be awhile before I get back to them again, although the fans are going to howl their heads off about that cliffhanger ending on the train out of Lud. Mark my words.
I'm glad I wrote it, tho, and to me the ending seems just right. In many ways Waste Lands feels like the high point of my "make-believe life."
Even better than The Stand, maybe.
November 27th, 1991
Remember me saying that I'd get bitched at about the ending of Waste Lands? Look at this!
Letter follows from John T. Spier, of Lawrence, Kansas:
November 16, 91
Dear Mr. King,
Or should I just cut to the chase and say "Dear Asshole"?
I can't believe I paid such big bucks for a Donald Grant Edition of your GUNSLINGER book The Waste Lands and this is what I got. It had the right title anyway, for it was "a true WASTE."
I mean the story was all right don't get me wrong, great in fact, but how could you "tack on" an ending like that? It wasn't an ending at all but just a case of you getting tired and saying "Oh well, what the f**k, I don't need to strain my brain to write an ending, those slobs who buy my books will swallow anything."
I was going to send it back but will keep it because I at least liked the pictures (especially Oy). But the story was a cheat.
Can you spell CHEAT Mr. King? M-O-O-N, that spells CHEAT.
Sincerely yours in criticism,
John T. Spier
Lawrence, Kansas
March 23, 1992
In a way, this one makes me feel even worse.
Letter follows from Mrs. Coretta Vele, of Stowe, Vermont:
March 6th, 1992
Dear Stephen King,
I don't know if this letter will actually reach you but one can always hope. I have read most of your books and have loved them all. I am a 76-yrs-young "gramma" from your "sister state" of Vermont, and I especially like your Dark Tower stories. Well, to the point. Last month I went to see a team of Oncologists at Mass General, and they tell me that the brain tumor I have looks to be malignant after all (at 1st they said "Don't worry Coretta its benine"). Now I know you have to do what you have to do, Mr. King, and "follow your muse," but what they're saying is that I will be fortunate to see the 4th of July this year. I guess I've read my last "Dark Tower yarn." So what I'm wondering is, Can you tell me how the Dark Tower story comes out, at least if Roland and his "Ka-Tet" actually get to the Dark Tower? And if so what they find there? I promise not to tell a soul and you will be making a dying woman very happy.
Sincerely,
Coretta Vele
Stowe, Vt.
I feel like such a shit when I think of how blithe I was concerning the ending of Waste Lands. I gotta answer Coretta Vele's letter, but I don't know how to. Could I make her believe I don't know any more than she does about how Roland's story finishes? I doubt it, and yet "that is the truth," as Jake sez in his Final Essay. I have no more idea what's inside that damned Tower than...well, than Oy does! I didn't even know it was in a field of roses until it came off my fingertips and showed up on the screen of my new Macintosh computer! Would Coretta buy that? What would she say if I told her, "Cory, listen: The wind blows and the story comes. Then it stops blowing, and all I can do is wait, same as you."
They think I'm in charge, every one of them from the smartest of the critics to the most mentally challenged reader. And that's a real hoot.
Because I'm not.
September 22, 1992
The Grant edition of The Waste Lands is sold out, and the paperback edition is doing very well. I should be happy and guess I am, but I'm still getting a ton of letters about the cliffhanger ending. They fall into 3 major categories: People who are pissed off, people who want to know when the next book in the series is coming out, and pissed-off people who want to know when the next book in the series is coming out.
But I'm stuck. The wind from that quarter just isn't blowing. Not just now, anyway.
Meanwhile, I have an idea for a novel about a lady who buys a picture in a pawnshop and then kind of falls into it. Hey, maybe it'll be Mid-World she falls into, and she'll meet Roland!
July 9th, 1994
Tabby and I don't fight much since I quit drinking, but oboy, this morning we had a dilly. We're at the Lovell house, of course, and as I was getting ready to leave on my morning walk, she showed me a story from today's Lewiston Sun. It seems that a Stoneham man, Charles "Chip" McCaus-land, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while walking on Route 7. Which is the road I walk on, of course. Tabby tried to persuade me to stay on Turtleback Lane, I tried to persuade her that I had as much right to use Route 7 as anyone else (and honest to God, I only do half a mile on the blacktop), and things went downhill from there. Finally she asked me to at least stop walking on Slab City Hill, where the sightlines are so short and there's nowhere to jump if someone happens to get off the road and onto the shoulder. I told her I'd think about it (it would have been noon before I got out of the house if we kept on talking), but in truth I'll be damned if I'll live my life in fear that way. Besides, it seems to me that this poor guy from Stoneham has made the odds of me getting hit while out walking about a million to one. I told this to Tabby and she said, "The odds of you ever being as successful at writing as you have been are even higher. You've said so yourself."