Book Review: Holly by Stephen King — A Deeply Disappointing Detour

Let me just rip off the bandage: Holly didn’t feel like a Stephen King novel. At all.

It felt more like Stephen King’s intern tried to channel his essence after binge-watching political news and forgetting what suspense is. From page one, I kept waiting for the hook, the tension, the slow-burn unease King usually builds like a master chef reducing a sauce to perfection. But instead, we got reheated leftovers. Bland ones.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a private chef, not a book critic. But I do know flavor, and this book had none. It was disjointed, repetitive, and—for a man who’s built his legacy on making our skin crawl—shockingly void of suspense. The central mystery is spilled long before the halfway mark, which left me flipping pages out of obligation, not obsession.

And then there’s the politics.

Look, I’m not here to debate views—I agree with most of what King clearly believes. But that’s the thing: I shouldn’t know what an author believes every other page. I don’t read fiction to be bludgeoned with social commentary. Especially not commentary dressed up as dialogue so forced it might as well be highlighted in neon and underlined with a Sharpie. It wasn’t subtle. It was suffocating.

As someone living with sarcoidosis and heart failure during the very pandemic he references ad nauseam, I get it. COVID was traumatic. Masking matters. Vaccines are science. But fiction is supposed to give us room to breathe, reflect, and—dare I say—escape. Instead, Holly felt like a PSA with page numbers.

Let’s talk about the poet. Yes, the poet. There’s a whole meandering segment featuring this character, and unless you eat haikus for breakfast, it’s a slog. Writers writing about writers (or poets, or academics, or essayists) is the literary version of chefs who only cook for other chefs—technically precise, but lacking soul. Spoiler: most readers aren’t here for obscure poetry references.

Honestly, if Holly had been my first dip into King’s world, I’d be side-eyeing every bookshelf in America wondering how this guy became the guy.

I’m not angry. Okay, maybe I am. But mostly, I’m disappointed. This wasn’t storytelling. This was a soapbox dressed up in suspense’s clothing, and the disguise didn’t hold.

So, what’s the takeaway here? Even literary giants swing and miss. Even the greats forget their audience sometimes. And as readers—especially those of us who lean on fiction as a life raft through chronic illness, uncertainty, or just plain exhaustion—we deserve better.

I’ll always have love for Stephen King. But Holly? She’s getting returned to the shelf with a sigh and a sticky note that reads: “Not this time.”

What did you think of Holly? Was it just me? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to know if I’m ranting alone on this one. And if you’ve ever finished a book that left you blinking in disbelief, hit that subscribe button. We’re building a judgment-free, slightly sarcastic, always heartfelt community here—and there’s always room at the table.