The worst possible book you could be reading when you’re in the hospital being treated for cancer, and you’re seriously contemplating your mortality, is Stephen King’s Pet Sematary. King even admits he almost didn’t publish Sematary due to its bleak subject matter, so why he would begin to write such a thing is beyond me.
That was the book I was planning to review for this podcast before life-changing news struck me and my family in June, and I was rushed into the emergency room with dangerously low levels of hemoglobin (6.1 when anything under 6.5 is deadly). So I asked my wife to bring me something a bit more uplifting to read, and she recommended the most saccharine book known to mankind, a story that made even me, with my excessive romantic sensibilities, roll my eyes page after page. I am talking, of course, about Paolo Coelho’s The Alchemist, which has become a worldwide phenomenon despite an overly simplistic plot and writing style reminiscent of Grimm’s Fairytales.
It’s the story of a young boy seeking treasure. Along the way, he meets mentor after mentor, all of whom give him simplistic advice, like “Don’t give up” and “Always believe in yourself.” The author’s earnest conviction is endearing, and his passion for his story and character(s) shines through every line, often reminding me of a teenage Nick. My early work was also accused of preachiness, particularly Ages of Aenya (guilty), but I still couldn’t bring myself to appreciate the barrage of motivational work-poster philosophy the author is so fond of. I imagine Paolo started The Alchemist in middle school and developed it over time before a competent editor smoothed out the wrinkles. I suspect readers enjoy this for the same reasons they swear by The Secret and The Law of Attraction and all that other silly nonsense.
If there was ever an ideal reader in need of a feel-good book like The Alchemist, a tale that purports to lift up the soul, that would be me, but as a jaded, forty-nine-year-old battling cancer who’s read many more inspiring works, I simply didn’t have the stomach for this one.
At this point, I am really starting to wonder why and how some books become so damn successful. After trying to figure this out for almost forty years, my conclusion is, I have no friggin’ clue.
The Art of Storytelling 
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