We found ourselves with our first free weekend day in a couple of months, so this morning we celebrated with a trip to the local bookseller. Hours of browsing later I dragged home my bounty, which included Steven King’s memoir On Writing. I’m no particular fan of King’s fiction, but I’d heard good things about this book, and tucked in immediately.
I was cruising along, fully engrossed, and had reached the apex of King’s story about his battle with alcoholism in the 1980’s. Riveted, I turned the page, eager to discover how King triumphed over the ravages of overnight success and cheap beer… and found myself reading a section I’d finished 30 pages ago. In my confusion, I wondered whether I had set the book down and lost my place. But no; I looked at the bottom of the page and found that the book had skipped from page 96 back in time to page 67 – which, make no mistake, was fine reading. But I didn’t need to relive it quite so soon. And worse, the thrilling conclusion of King’s battle with the bottle, as well as whatever happened in the next 30 pages, was completely missing.
So it’s back to the bookstore tomorrow to see if I can exchange my freakish misprinted copy with something a little more sequential. Perhaps I stand a fighting chance; Mercury turns direct tonight, 10:29 pm PST.