Below is the text from the book flap of End of Watch.  Spoilers for Mr. Mercedes and Finders Keepers!



Brady Hartsfield, perpetrator of the Mercedes Massacre, where eight people were killed and many more were badly injured, has been in the Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic for five years, in a vegetative state. According to his doctors, anything approaching a complete recovery is unlikely. But behind the drool and stare, Brady is awake, and in possession of deadly new powers that allow him to wreak unimaginable havoc without ever leaving his hospital room.

Retired police detective Bill Hodges, the unlikely hero of Mr. Mercedes and Finders Keepers, now runs an investigation agency with his partner, Holly Gibney, who delivered the blow to Hartsfield's head that put him on the brain injury ward. Brady also remembers that. When Bill and Holly are called to a murder-suicide with ties to the Mercedes Massacre, they find themselves pulled into their most dangerous case yet, one that will put not only their lives at risk, but those of Hodges’s friend Jerome Robinson and his teenage sister, Barbara. Because Brady Hartsfield is back, and planning revenge not just on Bill Hodges and his friends, but on an entire city.

In End of Watch, Stephen King brings the Hodges trilogy to a sublimely terrifying conclusion, combining the detective fiction of Mr. Mercedes and Finders Keepers with the supernatural suspense that has been his trademark. The result is an unnerving look at human vulnerability and up-all-night entertainment.

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From the NY Times:

Mr. Willis said he was looking forward to the challenge. “The idea of being trapped at someone’s house and getting smashed around and not having any control over it seems fun to me,” he said. He is fairly private about his actorly process, so he wouldn’t discuss just how he might play Paul or how he would convey the suffering that Paul endures. He doesn’t think of himself as a method actor and won’t draw on some deep store of personal anguish to rev himself up for the role. “I can’t remember the last time I did that,” he said.

Check out the rest HERE.


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From The National Endowment of the Arts:

Washington, DC — President Barack Obama will present the 2014 National Medals of Arts in conjunction with the National Humanities Medals on Thursday, September 10, 2015, at 3:00 p.m. ET in an East Room ceremony at the White House. First Lady Michelle Obama will attend. The event will be live streamed at

NEA Chairman Jane Chu said, "Ranging from literature, theater, and visual arts to arts presentation and philanthropy, these artists and organizations have broadened our horizons and enriched our lives. I join the President in congratulating them and celebrating what the arts do for America."

Stephen King for his contributions as an author. One of the most popular and prolific writers of our time, Mr. King combines his remarkable storytelling with his sharp analysis of human nature.  For decades, his works of horror, suspense, science fiction, and fantasy have terrified and delighted audiences around the world. (Bangor, ME)

To read about the other recipients head here.


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AuthorJoe Camillieri

From the NY Times:

THERE are many unspoken postulates in literary criticism, one being that the more one writes, the less remarkable one’s work is apt to be. Joyce Carol Oates, the author of more than 50 novels (not counting the 11 written under the pseudonyms Rosamond Smith and Lauren Kelly), understands perfectly how little use critics have for prolific writers. In one of her journals she wrote that she seemed to create “more, certainly, than the literary world allows for a ‘serious’ writer.”

As with most postulates dealing with subjective perceptions, the idea that prolific writing equals bad writing must be treated with caution. Mostly, it seems to be true. Certainly no one is going to induct the mystery novelist John Creasey, author of 564 novels under 21 different pseudonyms, into the Literary Hall of Heroes; both he and his creations (the Toff, Inspector Roger West, Sexton Blake, etc.) have largely been forgotten.

The same is true of the British novelist Ursula Bloom (over 500 published works, under many pseudonyms), Barbara Cartland (over 700) and a host of others. One is reminded of Truman Capote’s famous bon mot about Jack Kerouac: “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”

Yet some prolific writers have made a deep impression on the public consciousness. Consider Agatha Christie, arguably the most popular writer of the 20th century, whose entire oeuvre remains in print. She wrote 91 books, 82 under her own name and nine under a nom de plume — Mary Westmacott — or her married name, Agatha Christie Mallowan.

Those novels may not be literary, but they are far above the porridge turned out by John Creasey, and some of them are strikingly good. Christie gave us two characters — Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot — who have achieved a kind of immortality. Add to this the stylistic and thematic unity of Christie’s novels (the cozy warmth of the settings and the British stereotypes, placed within the context of her surprisingly cold appraisal of human nature), and one must view those many books in a different light.

The same can be said of the prolific, mid-20th-century writer John D. MacDonald. His Travis McGee novels now seem embarrassingly dated, and many of his over 40 stand-alone novels are an indigestible mix of Ernest Hemingway and John O’Hara, but when MacDonald forgot about his literary heroes and wrote strictly for himself, he did striking work. The best of his novels, “The End of the Night” and “The Last One Left,” rise to the level of that shape-shifting beast we call American literature.

No one in his or her right mind would argue that quantity guarantees quality, but to suggest that quantity never produces quality strikes me as snobbish, inane and demonstrably untrue.

Then consider the other end of the spectrum. Donna Tartt, one of the best American novelists to emerge in the last 50 years, has published just three novels since 1992. Jonathan Franzen, the only American novelist who is her equal, has published five (his latest, “Purity,” will appear on Tuesday).

It is easy to look at those few books, each of extraordinary quality, and conclude that the fewer the better. Perhaps: The recently retired Philip Roth wrote multiples more than the two of them combined, and “Our Gang” was pretty awful. But then, “American Pastoral” seems to me a much finer novel than either Ms. Tartt’s “The Goldfinch” or Mr. Franzen’s “Freedom.”

I’m a recovering alcoholic, haven’t had a drink in almost 27 years, and these days the thought of drinking rarely crosses my mind. Yet when I think about those eight novels by Ms. Tartt and Mr. Franzen — not enough to fill even a quarter of a library bookshelf — I’m reminded of a lunch I had with my wife not too long after I sobered up.

There were two older ladies at a nearby table. They were conversing with great animation over their meals, while their half-finished glasses of white wine stood forgotten in the middle of the table. I felt a strong urge to rise from my place and speak to them. Only that’s not right. I felt an urge to actually hector them. To say, “Why don’t you drink your wine? It’s sitting right there, for Christ’s sake. Some of us can’t drink wine, we don’t have that privilege, but you can, so why the heck don’t you do it?”

The long gaps between books from such gifted writers make me similarly crazy. I understand that each one of us works at a different speed, and has a slightly different process. I understand that these writers are painstaking, wanting each sentence — each word — to carry weight (or, to borrow the title of one of Jonathan Franzen’s finest novels, to have strong motion). I know it’s not laziness, but respect for the work, and I understand from my own work that haste makes waste.

But I also understand that life is short, and that in the end, none of us is prolific. The creative spark dims, and then death puts it out. William Shakespeare, for instance, hasn’t produced a new play for 400 years. That, my friends, is a long dry spell.

This is not a roundabout way of justifying my own prolificacy. Yes, I’ve published more than 55 novels. Yes, I have employed a pseudonym (Richard Bachman). Yes, I once published four books in one year (shades of James Patterson … except mine were longer, and written without the aid of a collaborator). And yes, I once wrote a novel (“The Running Man”) in a single week. But I can say, with complete honesty, that I never had any choice.

As a young man, my head was like a crowded movie theater where someone has just yelled “Fire!” and everyone scrambles for the exits at once. I had a thousand ideas but only 10 fingers and one typewriter. There were days — I’m not kidding about this, or exaggerating — when I thought all the clamoring voices in my mind would drive me insane. Back then, in my 20s and early 30s, I thought often of the John Keats poem that begins, “When I have fears that I may cease to be / Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain …”

I imagine it was that way with Frederick Schiller Faust, better known as Max Brand (and best known as the creator of Dr. Kildare). He wrote at least 450 novels, a feat rendered more remarkable by his ill health and premature death at the age of 51. Alexandre Dumas wrote “The Count of Monte Cristo” and “The Three Musketeers” — and some 250 other novels. And there’s Isaac Asimov, who sold his first short story at 19, hammered out more than 500 books, and revolutionized science fiction.

My thesis here is a modest one: that prolificacy is sometimes inevitable, and has its place. The accepted definition — “producing much fruit, or foliage, or many offspring” — has an optimistic ring, at least to my ear.

Not everyone feels that way. I remember a party where some self-appointed arbiter of literary taste joked that Joyce Carol Oates was like the old lady who lived in a shoe, and had so many children she didn’t know what to do. In truth, Ms. Oates knows exactly what she is doing, and why she is doing it. “I have more stories to tell,” she writes in her journals, and “more novels.” I’m glad of that, because I want to read them.

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AuthorJoe Camillieri

From The Wrap:

The Troubles are coming to an end. Syfy has canceled its long-running supernatural drama “Haven,” which will end its run after the upcoming 13-episode conclusion to its fifth season, TheWrap has learned.

The cable network aired the first 13 episodes of Season 5 in 2014, with the second half set to premiere in October.

Showrunner Gabrielle Stanton told TheWrap that even though the decision came after Season 5 of “Haven” had wrapped, the creative team was prepared for the end.

“I’m sure as a fellow TV fan, there’s nothing more annoying than when a show kind of feels like it might be wrapping up, but they just don’t address it, they don’t come to any kind of satisfying conclusion,” she said. “I always think that’s cheating the audience a little bit, of a nice satisfying ending. So we really looked at these 13 episodes as if… If we were indeed going to end, what would be the best ending we could possibly do for Haven?”

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AuthorJoe Camillieri
CategoriesStephen king

From Bloody Disgusting:

The long-gestured adaptation of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower is showing signs of life.

Sony Pictures is feeling so confident they went as far as to date the feature for January 13, 2017, which means production could commence anytime in the next year.

Last month the studio committed to A Royal Affair director Nikolaj Arcel to get behind the camera.

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