AUTHOR’S NOTE
My first book with Scribner was Bag of Bones, in 1998. Anxious to please my new partners, I went out on tour for that novel. At one of the autographing sessions, some guy asked, “Hey, any idea what happened to the kid from The Shining?”
This was a question I’d often asked myself about that old book—along with another: What would have happened to Danny’s troubled father if he had found Alcoholics Anonymous instead of trying to get by with what people in AA call “white-knuckle sobriety”?
As with Under the Dome and 11/22/63, this was an idea that never quite left my mind. Every now and then—while taking a shower, watching a TV show, or making a long turnpike drive—I would find myself calculating Danny Torrance’s age, and wondering where he was. Not to mention his mother, one more basically good human being left in Jack Torrance’s destructive wake. Wendy and Danny were, in the current parlance, codependents, people bound by ties of love and responsibility to an addicted family member. At some point in 2009, one of my recovering alcoholic friends told me a one-liner that goes like this: “When a codependent is drowning, somebody else’s life flashes before his eyes.” That struck me as too true to be funny, and I think it was at that point that Doctor Sleep became inevitable. I had to know.
Did I approach the book with trepidation? You better believe it. The Shining is one of those novels people always mention (along with ’Salem’s Lot, Pet Sematary, and It) when they talk about which of my books really scared the bejeezus out of them. Plus, of course, there was Stanley Kubrick’s movie, which many seem to remember—for reasons I have never quite understood—as one of the scariest films they have ever seen. (If you have seen the movie but not read the novel, you should note that Doctor Sleep follows the latter, which is, in my opinion, the True History of the Torrance Family.)
I like to think I’m still pretty good at what I do, but nothing can live up to the memory of a good scare, and I mean nothing, especially if administered to one who is young and impressionable. There has been at least one brilliant sequel to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (Mick Garris’s Psycho IV, with Anthony Perkins reprising his role as Norman Bates), but people who’ve seen that—or any of the others—will only shake their heads and say no, no, not as good. They remember the first time they experienced Janet Leigh, and no remake or sequel can top that moment when the curtain is pulled back and the knife starts to do its work.
And people change. The man who wrote Doctor Sleep is very different from the well-meaning alcoholic who wrote The Shining, but both remain interested in the same thing: telling a kickass story. I enjoyed finding Danny Torrance again and following his adventures. I hope you did, too. If that’s the case, Constant Reader, we’re all good.
Before letting you go, let me thank the people who need to be thanked, okay?
Nan Graham edited the book. Righteously. Thanks, Nan.
Chuck Verrill, my agent, sold the book. That’s important, but he also took all my phone calls and fed me spoonfuls of soothing syrup. Those things are indispensable.
Russ Dorr did the research, but for what’s wrong, blame me for misunderstanding. He’s a great physician’s assistant and a Nordic monster of inspiration and good cheer.
Chris Lotts supplied Italian when Italian was needed. Yo, Chris.
Rocky Wood was my go-to guy for all things Shining, providing me with names and dates I had either forgotten or plain got wrong. He also provided reams of info on every recreational vehicle and camper under the sun (the coolest was Rose’s EarthCruiser). The Rock knows my work better than I do myself. Look him up on the Web sometime. He’s got it going on.
My son Owen read the book and suggested valuable changes. Chief among them was his insistence that we see Dan reach what recovered alcoholics call “the bottom.”
My wife also read Doctor Sleep and helped to make it better. I love you, Tabitha.
Thanks to you guys and girls who read my stuff, too. May you have long days and pleasant nights.
Let me close with a word of caution: when you’re on the turnpikes and freeways of America, watch out for those Winnebagos and Bounders.
You never know who might be inside. Or what.
Bangor, Maine