A Long Walk

I. BLOOD

I was thirteen years old when Stephen King's Carrie came out. I read it in its entirety in one long night, my pink bedspread tucked under my chin; Ed, my stuffed bear, clutched against my chest. Maybe it was because I’d just gotten my first period (so much blood) that I related so intensely to the book. Or because, after some meaningless jab (“You are not leaving the house wearing that!”), I’d decided I had the cruelest mother on the planet. It might have been because a few girls at school were teasing me about my laughably flat chest.

Whatever the reason, I devoured that book like a starving wolf.

And, yeah, I wanted more.  

Thankfully, Mr. King didn’t disappoint. The man was a writing machine, churning out one, sometimes two books a year. The moment I heard there was a new one, I’d jump on my Schwinn ten-speed and jam down to Thrifty Drug Store. Before heading over to the metal turnstile swamped with glossy paperbacks, I’d stop at the front counter and get a $.15 triple ice cream cone.

I kept on reading his books, one after the other after the other. Salem’s Lot scared the bejesus out of me. Under the shade of our avocado tree I declared The Shining a literary masterpiece. Cujo almost made me a cat person. Christine caused me to fear the sound of car engines. All four of the stories in Different Seasons were so rich—so atmospheric and bold—that I started to wonder if the man had sold his soul to be able to craft such frighteningly vivid stories.

By the time I got to college, where I was forced to read other people’s writing, King’s books had become more leisurely reads—the kind of books I turned to on weekends or at night when I needed to give my brain a rest and my heart a jolt. (Although, tbh, I did end up missing two full days of classes because I couldn’t tear myself away from The Stand.)

In 1985, King, now one of the most popular writers in the world, released, under a pseudonym, The Bachman Books, a collection of four novellas he’d written earlier in his life. The reasons he became Richard Bachman, I later learned, were twofold. Apparently his publisher felt he was releasing too many books. That, and King wanted to find out for himself if his writing was good. Yes, he actually wondered if people were just buying his books simply because of name recognition.

I was not one to ever question his talent, and the four old stories contained within the new collection only served to prove just how nimble his mind was. It was The Long Walk, though, that stopped me in my tracks (pun intentional). It’s a dystopian tale about 100 teenage boys who try their luck in a walking competition. Once entered, you are required to walk at a continuous pace of 4 miles/hour. Slow down to tie your shoe? You get a warning. Stop because your hot girlfriend who’s cheering you on from the side of the road wants a kiss? You get a warning.

If you get a third warning…well, let’s just say you won’t be walking anymore.

The last boy alive gets to have anything and everything he so desires for the rest of his life.

Wow, I thought, after I’d finished reading it. This so needs to be a movie! Better yet, I surmised after visualizing how it could be done: it should be a STAGE PLAY.

And I would be the one to make it happen. Me—a wanna-be writer, who was presently living with her ex-boyfriend on Vashon Island, WA, after dropping out of graduate school. Someone who was looking for a purpose in life beyond writing recycling brochures for the Environmental Protection Agency.

II. SWEAT

I don’t remember exactly how I managed to find out the name of King’s agent, but I did. I also cannot for the life of me recollect whether we spoke on the phone or if I wrote him a letter, but, based on this letter I recently found at the bottom of a drawer, I do know that he’d asked me to expound on my idea.

The letter continues:

THE CHARACTERS: I will take the skeletons of Mr. King’s characters and reshape the flesh over them. Rich dialogue (though not complicated since, after all, they are only boys) will transform elemental characters—naïve, dreamer, hometown hero, spiteful bigot—into metaphorical dramatizations of societal ails.

For example, Scramm, the high school drop-out and blue-collar worker. He wants to prove to his educated wife that he's good enough for her, for their child. His pride will keep him walking forever. This is his only chance.

McVries is the realist. He perceives that it is not physical prowess alone that drives the other walkers on, but greed and hate and pride. He fears that he will not find those motivating emotions within himself.

I have chosen twelve walkers to portray in detail; a few guards; the villainous (or heroic?) Major; and some curious onlookers. About 20 total characters.

WHY THE HELL WOULD I WANT TO DO THIS? WASN'T THE STORY ENOUGH?

No, I don't think so. The story is a sort of horrible walkabout, if you will. A coming-of-age theme with a macabre twist. I would like to extend this theme because I believe the characters, their motivations, the underlying threat of death, the competitive spirit—no the competitive FORCE—that festers angrily within the boys, is as pervasive in our society as it is on the blacktop.

This tragic-comedy will speak of large issues with the boys' small talk. It will be great.

[It goes on—man, I was long-winded]:

Mr. Green, you also asked me to write a few words about who I was and tell you of my writing experience. Ahem. I enclose a resume which serves only to let you know that I am a responsible member of society, and that I have a great many academic degrees for which I have not found a way to put to use. I have written a few short stories and poems—none published.  I am a quarter of the way through a mystery novel about an anthropologist (fact is larger than life, isn't it?) who gets kidnapped while conducting research in the field.  If I could send my grandmother in the mail, she could tell you how very talented I am and that I deserve a break. 

But she's dead. So, instead I ask only that you grant me the rights to write (I like that) this play.  Whatever I need to do, barring any financial investment, I will do because I believe in this project and I believe in my ability to do it.

Thank you for your time. 

I'll be waiting most impatiently to hear from you.

Yours Very Truly,

Lisa G. Kusel

III. TEARS

After reading this letter, thirty-five years later, I was simultaneously mortified and impressed.

Did I really believe he’d say yes?

I did, but to no one’s surprise but my own, his response was swift and final. I can’t find it but I do remember him telling me that 1) too many of King's works were already in development; and 2) I was nobody. (He might have only implied that, but I can easily recall the visceral gut punch of dejection I’d felt as if it were yesterday.)

I was a nobody.

IV. TOIL

In the grand scheme, I’m still a nobody. Since sending off that letter I've published five books—stories that mattered to me even when they didn't necessarily matter to a whole lot of others. Each publication still feels like a small victory, proof that I am still in this crazy race. The parallels aren't lost on me. Stephen King's boys walk because they know there's something worth winning at the end. We writers write because we’ve convinced ourselves that our tales matter; that somewhere out there is a reader who wants exactly what we're offering.

The Long Walk, the movie, is set to be released today.

As much as it pains me to say so, it’ll probably be great. It just won’t be as brilliant as I imagined it could have been. 

[I just read The New York Times review: they, um, didn't love it.]

A little more than a month from now, my new thriller novel, Long Way Down, will hit the shelves (October 21). It stars Deni Rydell, a young woman from "the wrong side of the tracks" who believes that by marrying into the family of a mining dynasty, all her dreams for a better life will come true.

Be careful what you wish for.

I see this book as the next mile marker in a very long journey; one I'm still figuring out—even after all this time— one step at a time.

One word at a time.

I mean, as long as I haven’t gotten my third warning yet I might as well keep walking.