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And what was driving me crazy？ What made it all seem so pointless？ Why； that nobody cared about the story。 Hell； nobody even asked about the story； and do you know what？ It's a pretty good story； if I do say so myself。 Simple but fun。 Gets the job done。 If it got you to turn off the TV； as far as I'm concerned； it （or any of the stories in the collection which follows） is a total success。
But in the wake of 'Bullet；' all the guys in ties wanted to know was； 'How's it doing？ How's it selling？' How to tell them I didn't give a flying fuck how it was doing in the marketplace； that what I cared about was how it was doing in the reader's heart？ Was it succeeding there？ Failing？ Getting through to the nerve…endings？ Causing that little frisson which is the spooky story's raison d'être？ I gradually realized that I was seeing another example of creative ebb； another step by another art on the road that may indeed end in extinction。 There is something weirdly decadent about appearing on the cover of a major magazine simply because you used an alternate route into the marketplace。 There is something weirder about realizing that all those readers might have been a lot more interested in the novelty of the electronic package than they were in what was inside the package。 Do I want to know how many of the readers who downloaded 'Riding the Bullet' actually read 'Riding the Bullet'？ I do not。 I think I might be extremely disappointed。
E…publishing may or may not be the wave of the future； about that I care not a fiddler's fart； believe me。 For me； going that route was simply another way of trying to keep myself fully involved in the process of writing stories。 And then getting them to as many people as possible。
This book will probably end up on the best…seller lists for awhile； I've been very lucky that way。 But if you see it there； you might ask yourself how many other books of short stories end up on the bestseller lists in the course of any given year； and how long publishers can be expected to publish books of a type that doesn't interest readers very much。 Yet for me； there are few pleasures so excellent as sitting in my favorite chair on a cold night with a hot cup of tea； listening to the wind outside and reading a good story which I can plete in a single sitting。
Writing them is not so pleasurable。 I can only think of two in the current collection…the title story and 'L。T。's Theory of Pets'…which were written without an amount of effort far greater than the relatively slight result。 And yet I think I have succeeded in keeping my craft new； at least to myself； mostly because I refuse to let a year go by without writing at least one or two of them。 Not for money； not even precisely for love； but as a kind of dues…paying。 Because if you want to write short stories； you have to do more than think about writing short stories。 It is not like riding a bicycle but more like working out in the gym： your choice is use it or lose it。
To see them collected here like this is a great pleasure for me。 I hope it will be for you； as well。 You can let me know at stephenking； and you can do something else for me （and yourself）； as well： if these stories work for you； buy another collection。 Sam the Cat by Matthew Klam； for instance； or The Hotel Eden by Ron Carlson； These are only two of the good writers doing good work out there； and although it's now officially the twenty…first century； they're doing it in the same old way； one word at a time。 The format in which they eventually appear doesn't change that。 If you care； support them。 The best method of support really hasn't changed much： read their stories。
I'd like to thank a few of the people who've read mine： Bill Buford； at The New Yorker； Susan Moldow； at Scribner； Chuck Verrill； who has edited so much of my work across such a span of years； Ralph Vici…nanza； Arthur Greene； Gordon Van Gelder； and Ed Ferman at The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction； Nye Willden at Cavalier； and the late Robert A。 W。 Lowndes； who bought that first short story back in '68。 Also…most important…my wife； Tabitha； who remains my favorite Constant Reader。 These are all people who have worked and are still working to keep the short story from being a lost art。 So am I。 And； by what you buy （and thus choose to subsidize） and by what you read； so are you。 You most of all； Constant Reader。 Always you。
Stephen King
Bangor； Maine
December 11； 2001
AUTOPSY ROOM FOUR
It's so dark that for a while…just how long I don't know…I think I'm still unconscious。 Then； slowly； it es to me that unconscious people don't have a sensation of movement through the dark； acpanied by a faint； rhythmic sound that can only be a squeaky wheel。 And I can feel contact； from the top of my head to the balls of my heels。 I can smell something that might be rubber or vinyl。 This is not unconsciousness； and there is something too 。 。 。 too what？ Too rational about these sensations for it to be a dream。
Then what is it？
Who am I？
And what's happening to me？
The squeaky wheel quits its stupid rhythm and I stop moving。 There is a crackle around me from the rubber…smelling stuff。
A voice： 'Which one did they say？'
A pause。
Second voice： 'Four； I think。 Yeah； four。'
We start to move again； but more slowly。 I can hear the faint scuff of feet now； probably in soft…soled shoes； maybe sneakers。 The owners of the voices are the owners of the shoes。 They stop me again。 There's a thump followed by a faint whoosh。 It is； I think； the sound of a door with a pneumatic hinge being opened。
What's going on here？ I yell； but the yell is only in my head。 My lips don't move。 I can feel them…and my tongue； lying on the floor of my mouth like a stunned mole…but I can't move them。
The thing I'm on starts rolling again。 A moving bed？ Yes。 A gurney； in other words。 I've had some experience with them； a long time ago； in Lyndon Johnson's shitty little Asian adventure。 It es to me that I'm in a hospital； that something bad has happened to me； something like the explosion that almost neutered me twenty…three years ago； and that I'm going to be operated on。 There are a lot of answers in that idea； sensible ones； for the most part； but I don't hurt anywhere。 Except for the minor matter of being scared out of my wits； I feel fine。 And if these are orderlies wheeling me into an operating room； why can't I see？ Why can't I talk？
A third voice： 'Over here； boys。'
My rolling bed is pushed in a new direction； and the question drumming in my head is What kind of a mess have I gotten myself into？
Doesn't that depend on who you are？ I ask myself； but that's one thing； at least； I find I do know。 I'm Howard Cottrell。 I'm a stock broker known to some of my colleagues as Howard the Conqueror。
Second voice （from just above my head）： 'You're looking very pretty today； doc。'
Fourth voice （female； and cool）： 'It's always nice to be validated by you； Rusty。 Could you hurry up a little？ The babysitter expects me back by seven。 She's mitted to dinner with her parents。'
Back by seven； back by seven。 It's still the afternoon； m