I've been a big fan of Mr. King and Mr. Chabon for a long time. I was first introduced to Chabon in college. I was in an Independent Study class (which basically means you get to work on a project of some sort one on one with a professor). I was writing a book (or trying to anyway) and my professor gave me The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. It was Chabon’s first book, one he wrote while attending the University of California, and pursuing his own M.F.A. (Master of Fine Arts). My professor told me that my writing style was somewhat similar to Chabon’s and that I could learn a lot from him. While I don’t imagine myself to be anywhere near Chabon's talent, he did teach me a thing or two.

Last year, I got to interview Chabon for Writing magazine. It was a somewhat of a daunting task but I got through it without dying of fandamonia (not a word) and the article turned out fine. When he stepped out on the stage Friday night, the audience roared. I was clapping enthusiastically, too, but I was also feeling a little sad. I felt like I should be feeling more. Like my jubilance was egging me on.

Jubilance - Here he is, one of your literary heroes, in the flesh. You've read him. You've talked to him. You've written about him. And now he’s going to read to you! Fill your entire being with this moment! Why can’t you?
Me - He’s just a guy who plays with words.
Jubilance - You’re an idiot.
Me - Maybe. Shut up now. He’s talking. Let me enjoy this on my own level.

When Chabon began to speak, I thought he seemed a little nervous. But how could that be? The man won a Pulitzer Prize for Pete's sake! There must be something else going on.

"Please forgive me if I sound a little weak. I've been fighting a cold."

Right. I knew it.

Without much build up, Chabon began reading from his first chapter of his new novel, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. The novel (which comes out in April) doesn't need much of an introduction. The words speak for themselves.

As he read, I began to get lost in the poetry of his work. I have a hard time focusing when people read to me. It's not A.D.D. but it might be close. Sometimes, I space out for a bit and then I realize that I'm zoning out and I force myself back. I didn't have to do any forcing as Chabon read. If I zoned, ever so briefly, the way his words clanged and swam together pulled me back with their own strength.

There was a detective and he was trying to solve a murder. His Alaskan investigations took him to a cold basement. There, we find out that he is afraid of the dark. As he moves through the basement, his pulse rises and he draws his gun. His voice cracks as he calls out to whoever may be hiding down there. His rough and tough exterior falls flat. He moves cautiously, afraid. And the whole time, Chabon's voice walked us through it. He is as excited as his listeners. He narrates his tale with ease. I listen to the scene as if it was music. His terrific use of over-exaggerated alliterations coupled with the slow, nail biting prose of each fine-tuned sentence reveals the opening of a great adventure in reading. And I am captivated. Not so much with the story, but with the words. I am sure that when I buy The Yiddish Policeman’s Union in April, I will be more interested in the actual story. But Friday night, I was just eating up his words.

When he finished, we applauded, and he left the stage. It was now Stephen King's turn to read.

Where Chabon wore a smart suit and tie, King wore jeans and a red flannel shirt. His limp from his accident is still visible, but only if you look for it. Try not to stare. The man is Stephen King. He is a legend. And he’s there. On the stage. Wow.

Lucky me, I also got to interview King last year for Writing magazine. In fact, the issue is coming out in October! The preparation, the interview, the writing of the article, and all the other nerves and jitters that came with it all was a multi-month marathon that never seemed to end. On Friday night, I worked myself up again with thoughts that this event would finally give me some closure with the King of Horror. Did it? I still don’t really know.

King seemed very affable and comfortable on the stage. He's been making these appearances for three decades or so and he seems to have worked it down to a science: Get up there and be yourself, read your work and be proud. He was poised and funny, articulate and enthused. He read a story he wrote for McSweeney's some years ago. It was about a young boy who attacked his older brother. The boy was possessed by some kind of an animal from another dimension. His father called it "bad gunky" and he considered killing it.

The father, the older brother, and the boy with the bad gunky were all downstairs in the basement. The older brother went off to the barn to get some thick tractor chains to chain his younger brother to the wall. He hurried back to the basement as fast as he could. He was afraid his father would kill his younger brother. The fear in the older brother’s mind was real and it came through in King's reading. His story was laced with graphic details and harsh language and dialect. His characters had a sense of doom and failure about them but still, they were interesting and frightening. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the master.

When story time was over, King and Chabon came out together and answered questions from the audience. Chabon spoke at length about how the best writing he's ever done has been lost. He is convinced that whenever he writes something on his computer and, for some reason, it disappears, it was the best paragraph or two that ever graced the English language. Of course it was! That's why it vanished! It was too good for this world. Ha! I know exactly how he feels. Whenever you lose a piece of writing, you think back on it and immortalize it. Best not to lose your words, I guess. Try not to.

King talked about how he loved Chabon's story and how, when he was backstage, he was just thinking, "now how can I steal this?” The audience laughed. "Seriously, I was backstage listening and thinking, 'well, maybe I can make the basement an attic.'" The audience laughed again. As did Chabon.

After the Q&A, we all got up and filed out. I had my press pass and tried to work my way backstage but alas, it was not in the cards. That's all right though. I kind of like feeling this connection to both authors without needing to address it to their faces. Although it would have been nice to shake their hands.