Free Bag of Bones by Stephen King Page B

eight-to-fifteen segment of the Times bestseller list. And my British publisher, Debra said, loved Helen, was sure it would be my “breakthrough book.” (My British sales had always lagged.)
    â€œ Promise is sort of a new direction for you,” Debra said. “Wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œI kind of thought it was,” I confessed, and wondered how Debbie would respond if I told her my new-direction book had been written almost a dozen years ago.
    â€œIt’s got . . . I don’t know . . . a kind of maturity. ”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œMike? I think the connection’s going. You sound muffled.”
    Sure I did. I was biting down on the side of my hand to keep from howling with laughter. Now, cautiously, I took it out of my mouth and examined the bite-marks. “Better?”
    â€œYes, lots. So what’s the new one about? Give me a hint.”
    â€œYou know the answer to that one, kiddo.”
    Debra laughed. “‘You’ll have to read the book to find out, Josephine,’” she said. “Right?”
    â€œYessum.”
    â€œWell, keep it coming. Your pals at Putnam arecrazy about the way you’re taking it to the next level.”
    I said goodbye, I hung up the telephone, and then I laughed wildly for about ten minutes. Laughed until I was crying. That’s me, though. Always taking it to the next level.
    *   *   *
    During this period I also agreed to do a phone interview with a Newsweek writer who was putting together a piece on The New American Gothic (whatever that was, other than a phrase which might sell a few magazines), and to sit for a Publishers Weekly interview which would appear just before publication of Helen’s Promise. I agreed to these because they both sounded softball, the sort of interviews you could do over the phone while you read your mail. And Debra was delighted because I ordinarily say no to all the publicity. I hate that part of the job and always have, especially the hell of the live TV chat-show, where nobody’s ever read your goddam book and the first question is always “Where in the world do you get those wacky ideas?” The publicity process is like going to a sushi bar where you’re the sushi, and it was great to get past it this time with the feeling that I’d been able to give Debra some good news she could take to her bosses. “Yes,” she could say, “he’s still being a booger about publicity, but I got him to do a couple of things.”
    All through this my dreams of Sara Laughs were going on—not every night but every second or third night, with me never thinking of them in the daytime. I did my crosswords, I bought myself an acoustic steel guitar and started learning how to play it (I was never going to be invited to tour with PattyLoveless or Alan Jackson, however), I scanned each day’s bloated obituaries in the Derry News for names that I knew. I was pretty much dozing on my feet, in other words.
    What brought all this to an end was a call from Harold Oblowski not more than three days after Debra’s book-club call. It was storming outside—a vicious snow-changing-over-to-sleet event that proved to be the last and biggest blast of the winter. By mid-evening the power would be off all over Derry, but when Harold called at five P.M., things were just getting cranked up.
    â€œI just had a very good conversation with your editor,” Harold said. “A very enlightening, very energizing conversation. Just got off the phone, in fact.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œOh indeed. There’s a feeling at Putnam, Michael, that this latest book of yours may have a positive effect on your sales position in the market. It’s very strong.”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I’m taking it to the next level.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI’m just blabbing, Harold. Go on.”
    â€œWell . . . Helen