I'm Luke Foster

Everyone has heard of Stephen King. Most people have read at least one of his books or seen at least one his movies. Those that haven’t know him by reputation: the king of horror, the master of scares, and so on.

I myself hadn’t read more than one or two of his short stories until a few years ago, when I picked up the first “Dark Tower” book at an airport. I quickly read the rest of the series, then read as many of the rest of his books as I could. I have read about 40 of his books, leaving about 20 or so left to get through.

It’s easy for those who haven’t read King’s work to dismiss it as gore fests or mindless terror. That is, after all, all horror is, is it not? But what I have learned reading his books is that scares mean nothing without love, without caring for other people, and it’s his interpersonal relationships that I find most enjoyable to read. Whether it’s found families like the Ka-Tet or the Losers Club, best friends like Dennis and Arnie from “Christine,” or communities like Mother Abagail’s followers in “the Stand,” King writes people who matter to each other, who would do anything to protect each other from the darkness in the world, even at the cost of their own life. And that’s just the horror books. Many of his stories don’t have supernatural elements or aren’t designed to inspire terror, but instead are written to show the resilience of people in tough situations.

I intend to read the rest of King’s books soon, as now more than ever, we need to be reminded to look for the light in the midst of all the darkness.

Long days and pleasant nights.

A number of years ago my best friend, who I was living with at the time, recommended I read Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels. He and his father were both fans, and knowing my sensibilities, he thought I, too, would enjoy them.

He was correct. I picked one almost at random from the bookstore shelf within a few days. I bought many more after that, soon owning nearly the entire series. Time and circumstances prevented me from completing my collection, though, and there remain five I still haven’t read, nor have I read Parker’s Jesse Stone or Sunny Randall novels.

Spenser, for those of you who don’t know, is a Boston-based private investigator who solves crimes with the help of his best friend, a career criminal named Hawk, his life partner, psychiatrist Susan Silverman, and Lt. Martin Quirk and Sgt. Frank Belson of the Boston PD.

Spenser stands somewhat apart from other literary private detectives, at least those from his origins in the 1970s, in that he is very clearly a tough guy who doesn’t fall prey to masculine stereotypes. He understands the equal value of a physical workout and a night at the ballet. He treats women as equals. He’s a gourmet cook. He knows not every crime can be solved with his fists. Spenser, truly, was a thinly-disguised version of Parker himself, with many elements of Parker’s life, from his wife to his dogs, bleeding into his fictional world in one way or another.

Spenser, channeling his creator, is also a razor-sharp wit. Parker’s ability to write dialogue was far and away his greatest strength, and it was a rare case when I didn’t laugh out loud at least once while reading his characters’ words.

Parker loved Boston, too. The locations in his novels weren’t fictional, but were places he himself had visited while writing. It was said that the best thing to happen to a restaurant was for Robert B. Parker to dine there, as its appearance in his books led to a notable bump in business.

Parker’s work was popular for his entire career, starting with the first book, “The Godwulf Manuscript,” in 1973, all the way to “Sixkill” in 2011. The series even spawned the TV show from which I got this blog’s title, starring Robert Urich as Spenser and Avery Brooks as Hawk. While the books became somewhat formulaic as Parker got older, he can be forgiven that, given how many other strengths they had.

Parker died, quite literally, at his writing desk, the way many writers wish they could go. Four books were published posthumously, as well as one he left incomplete. He left behind, it goes without saying, an impressive body of literature and the legacy of an incredible work ethic.

I do intend to read those last five Spenser novels, plus Parker’s other two series. I’ll probably wait until 2021 to so, though. I have, after all, set myself a rather ambitious reading goal for this year.

My grandmother was a voracious reader, owning literal closets full of paperback murder mysteries and thrillers (the apple, it seems, falls quite close to the tree). Her favorite writer, by far, was Agatha Christie. She had dozens of her novels. All of them? Quite possibly. I read a handful of them when I was a teenager. They were entertaining enough, but they were always, well, grandmother books, and my attentions often turned to the titles more geared towards teenage boys.

Several decades after having read my last Christie novel, I decided last month to start reading her books again. I’ve been through the first few Miss Marples, the first few Poirots, and the entire Tommy and Tuppence series – eleven books in all. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg Library’s digital catalog has been a Godsend during this quarantine.

Reading them with older eyes has been enlightening. Yes, they are of course some of the most expertly plotted and crafted crime novels of all time, but there is also a real wit to them. I truly didn’t expect them to be as funny as they are. And as she wrote over the span of five-plus decades, you can slowly see England change and develop over the half of the twentieth century they covered. A big deal is never made, of course, because to Christie they were always contemporary, but it’s there.

Christie wrote just shy of eighty books. It’s early June and I’ve read eleven of them. I think I’m going to try to get through all of them by the end of the year. At my reading speed, it’s definitely doable.

I bet my grandmother could have done it.