It finally happened.
After years of submitting stories to magazines that never open attachments and agents who vanish into polite vapor, Stephen King himself has reached out to me.The gorilla: He has not. I checked his outbox. Gorillas have access.
At least, that’s what Gmail thought — right before shoving his message straight into Spam with a yellow warning:
“This message is similar to ones that were identified as spam.”
You don’t say. Next time, though, try Hemingway. He’d at least keep it under fifty words.
The subject line read: “Love connecting.”
Because, of course, that’s how the King of Horror breaks the ice — with the same phrase used by life coaches, pyramid-scheme recruiters, and men who unironically end emails with “Warmly.”
Then came the masterpiece:
Hi. I’m stephen king, an author who truly believes in the power of connecting with fellow writers.
Lowercase stephen, lowercase king. The humility of a god who’s finally learned to type like a teenage influencer.
I’d really enjoy connecting whether to exchange ideas, talk about the writing process, or simply encourage each other as we chase our creative goals.
Beautiful. Poetic. The kind of line that makes you want to unplug your router and go live in the woods.
I almost wrote back:
Dear Mr. King,
I’m flattered. I’ve always wanted to co-write “Phish Cemetery.”
But instead, I stared at that Gmail address and realized this is what horror truly is in 2025: not ghosts, not clowns in sewers, not undead pets. It’s scammers in writer cosplay.
They come wearing the faces of our idols, whispering in fluent cliché: “I love hearing about other authors’ journeys.” You can almost hear the inspirational music swelling before the phishing link drops. So, to whoever wrote this — the algorithm, the grifter, or the bored demon haunting Google’s free mail servers — thank you. You reminded me that connection has indeed become terrifying.
Of course, if the real Mr. King truly tried to reach me, I sincerely apologize.
Dear Mr. King (or perhaps his ghost in the machine),
Your email reached me from the dark tower of Gmail, and I must admit — it’s creepier thanThe gorilla: Nothing in Pet Sematary ever asked for your bank details. Low bar, Gmail. Pet Sematary.
Best regards,
Adam
I’m looking forward to the next colleague’s email.
I’ll only be surprised if it’s Douglas Adams this time. Imagine the laugh we’ll have if it turns out Heaven exists — it’s just stuck on dial-up.
Leave a Reply