How To Tell If You Are In a Stephen King Novel

You are in Maine. You have always been in Maine. No matter what happens to you, you will never be anywhere but Maine. Do you have a flight scheduled to Los Angeles? Too bad; the pilot’s just going to circle around the sky for a few hours before dropping you back in Bangor. Are you taking a cross-country road trip? Not likely, since you’re just driving from one side of Maine to the other, no matter how many road signs seem to indicate otherwise. Maine is a part of you. You are a part of it. In a sense, you are Maine, and there is no escape.

You have a habit of relating to and quoting specific passages from prominent works of literature.

There’s a child in your life who means the world to you, but you get the sinking feeling that child isn’t going to be around much longer. It disturbs you, but not enough to act.

You’re an alcoholic, even though you know deep down the alcoholism is just a metaphor for your insecurities and the flaws you’ve meant to work on but never gotten around to.

Smoking is another metaphor-laden activity for you, but one you find more abhorrent than alcohol dependency.

You are a sentimental person — not maudlin or over the top, just sentimental enough that it strikes a chord with anyone willing to listen to you.

For you, descriptions of driving never get old.

Your parent issues are with your mother and your mother alone, and they are best left uncovered.

If you see an abandoned building, you’re going in there, no questions asked. You’re going to uncover its secrets, no matter how detrimental that may be. Maybe you’ll bring a child with you. Who knows? All you know is you’re going to do it. (The same goes for stores selling strictly macabre merchandise.)

Abandoned building issues aside, you’ve learned by now to trust any wizened old man who speaks slowly and issues warnings to passerby, especially if they’re wearing overalls.

You are a novelist, for there is no nobler nor more logical career path.

The word that best applies to you is scrappy; never, not once, have you given up on someone or something without a fight.

You don’t know where this sidekick came from, but you suppose you’ll keep them around.

Try as you might, you have an inability to respect the sanctity of Native American burial grounds.

You fancy yourself a bit of a journeyman, despite your hesitance to stray from your hometown.

Any new friend you make must come to terms with the fact that you will always be closer to the people you met when you were in elementary school.

You can’t shake your inherent distrust of inanimate objects. You have your reasons.

The rules don’t apply to you.

You think your life would make a great movie. But you’re wrong.

Every job you had before you became a novelist had a quirk you refuse to discuss.

You give off an air of mysteriousness that men find enviable and women find irresistible, even though you’re just a typical working-class guy from the East Coast.

No matter how many life-threatening situations you find yourself thrust into, you refuse to change your behavior. Self preservation is for wusses.

You will never escape your childhood.

Your fascination with U.S. history has gone a bit too far.

For reasons unknown, Dean Koontz really sticks in your craw.

You miss your cat. Your cat never left.

Groups of children unnerve you in a way you cannot define. Ditto supermarkets. Supermarkets filled with groups of children might actually be your worst nightmare.

Your romantic relationships are free of conflict; to engage in any sort of argument would upset the status quo, and you really need at least one constant in this crazy world. This hasn’t always been true, but it certainly looks to be now.

You are a skeptic, and there is literally no justification for this.

Everyone you love will be dead someday. This is true for all people, but in your case, it’s going to happen sooner rather than later.

You tend to ramble and have a habit of painstakingly describing everything and everyone around you.

Your ideal night in heavily involves a battered copy of The Best of HP Lovecraft and a peanut butter and onion sandwich. (What? It’s not gross.)

You show no signs of stopping, and the world is better for it.

You can assign fearsome properties to even the most mundane objects. When vending machines come up in conversation, your friends roll their eyes and say, “Don’t get them started.”

Your white guilt is showing, but at least you have the strength to admit it.

You could stand to take a break once in a while, maybe recharge your batteries, let your creative juices flow without anyone seeing the fruits of your labor. Just a thought.

Your knowledge of your fellow Maine townspeople is encyclopedic. It’s grown past mere curiosity and gone straight to obsession. Weirdly, though, no one seems to notice, and if they do, they don’t mind that you’re cataloguing their morning, afternoon, and evening routines.

You can’t help thinking that none of this would’ve happened if you’d just stayed on the porch and drank one more Natty Light.

You haven’t gone to a supermarket alone in years. It’s just one of those things.

Sometimes your actions seem contrived, even manufactured, but that’s part of your charm.

You seek merit in even the trashiest media.

You would sooner die than stay in a rundown hotel. And you probably will.

Your motto is “Death is an inevitability. Brevity is not.”