Do you ever dream and wonder if your dreams, where you were, was real? Somehow, you also exist in other worlds, don’t you think? I know it seems strange, and by scientific measures dreams mean nothing. But do they really mean nothing?

I’m not a dream interpreter, nor do I claim to tell you now that dreams have any meaning. Yet, I can’t say that with an assuring, confident voice. Somehow, I dunno. Let me put it this way. I’m about two hundred pages out from finishing Fairy Tale by Stephen King, and well, I somehow already know this story, in some sense.

Would it be a strange thing to tell you that I had imagined this exact story, albeit vague and hazy? Of a world that I visit, where I have a special purpose. To fulfill some kind of unknown destiny.

As a storyteller, this fascinates me because, when I bring that back into this reality, I have so much to share. Do I pull from my dreams, of course I do. I also pull from this reality, and how it parallels the places I visit while I’m asleep, dreaming.

Mr. King, if you’re reading this, I want to say I’m so sorry. I spoke ill of you, in my little world, because I for some reason thought you might be evil. I was edging around this idea that because you’re a liberal democrat, I shouldn’t like you. Not because I’m a conservative Republican, but because for a quick few moments I felt that the Democratic party was just as evil as the Republican party.

I began listening to your newest story, Fairy Tale, three days ago (counting today as well). I know you love dogs, I believe you are a fan of Corgi’s. I love all dogs, any kind- regardless the size, shape, color. Dogs are the best, aren’t they? Better than us humans. Including myself. I also want to tell you that I have things I’ve done that I’m also ashamed of. Never hurt or killed anyone, never raped or molested anyone. But I’ve done some shit. Also, I’ve never stolen from a private property, of a fellow civilian. Only corporations deserve the Robin Hood theory.

I’ll end this little note to you with this: I dreamed of you, and your son’s Joseph and Owen. We were in a small indoors place. Maybe a house, maybe a cozy safe haven of sorts. I remember coming into the dream somewhere in the middle of the experience. Mr. King, you were somewhere else- and I was shooting the breeze with your son Joseph aka Joe HIll. I can’t recall what we were discussing, but I felt happy. Not as a fan, but as someone who was a friend, someone whom, didn’t need to have the pretenses of author/fanatic relationships. I remember that we were talking about stories. Don’t remember which ones. But we were laughing and smiling. And I thought of you, Mr. King. I wanted to tell Joe how great you were, in a humble way. How it is undeniable that you are something special, in a good way. But I didn’t. I don’t know why, but it didn’t seem, I don’t know, fair? Or appropriate to give you praise. Not because you don’t deserve it, but… Joe and I were not playing the popularity contest, or trying to claim one is better than the other. We were just so passionate, a couple of nerds, geeking out on the finer details of stories we loved. Like a couple of sports fans only speaking positively about the professional athletes they admired, and why that was so. We were mesmerized by any story. Just a couple of nerds. Connecting via passion for how amazing stories are. Strangely, Mr. King, you never appeared in the dream. You were there more so in spirit. Which was equally as cool.

Again, Mr. Stephen King, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for lashing out in anger, and pain, because that was the only way I knew how to respond. I don’t know my purpose fully, I hope I can keep writing though. Maybe that’ll make a difference. I kind of, well, I kind of hope and trust it will.

Sterling Watson who taught at Eckerd College, and who found Dennis Lehane, told us (his students) that he in fact had dinner with you once. Maybe at your place, or at a restaurant- if he told us I can’t remember that detail either. But what I loved the most is what he had to say about you, from the time you two broke bread and chatted, shot the breeze. He said you were such a nice, sweetheart of a man. But that, undeniably, you indeed are a weird human being. He told us that you would trail off on these tangents involving blood puddles and disturbing stuff, seemingly transition from regular conversation into the bizarre. That makes sense to me. I think that’s why so many of us readers love your stories. You can effortlessly transition from everyday journalistic observations, mixed with a genius bit of poetry, and philosophy, and the next moment scary shit happens.

So now, Mr. King, I go onward to finish Fairy Tale. In fact, I might not get to the end until tomorrow, which is my birthday, September 12th. Sadly also the same day David Foster Wallace decided to take his life. But it’s all there. This world and the many other worlds we visit.

To you Mr. King, I say- Long Days and Pleasant Nights. Ka-Tet.

Philip Webb, 9:39AM, September 11th, 2022

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