When people argue about who the most honest American is, they usually point to Abe Lincoln, Mr. Rogers, or that one uncle who can’t stop telling you exactly what’s wrong with your life at Thanksgiving. But I’d like to submit another name for consideration: Stephen King.

Yes, the same man who gave us evil clowns, haunted hotels, killer cars, and the undeniable truth that a Maine winter is already horror enough without vampires showing up. The man who convinced an entire generation to check under the bed twice. King is brutally honest in a way most Americans aren’t. He doesn’t sugarcoat his nightmares – he sells them. And we buy them by the truckload.

Let’s face it: King writes what millions of Americans secretly think. Utter violence. Gleeful destruction. Characters dying faster than Wi-Fi during a Zoom call. The kind of details people swear they don’t like, even as they binge his books and shell out cash for movie tickets, popcorn, and overpriced drinks; which in America some need to apply for a loan to go on a movie date. No wonder he’s one of the best-selling authors of all time. He even snagged the National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters in 2003 because apparently, honesty about your inner demons looks really good in a tux.

Think about it: Carrie, It, The Shining, Misery, Pet Sematary. And let’s not forget The Green Mile, where yet again we see America’s favorite horror trope – an innocent Black man is punished for a crime a white murderous pedophile got away with. Some call that fiction. Others call it Tuesday’s news. And audiences? They eat it up. For some folks, seeing a Black man suffer is more satisfying than watching actual justice. (That’s not a shot at King, by the way – the man is a legend. Personally, I hope my books get even a taste of that kind of recognition.)

But here’s where America really shines: denial. When it comes to hate crimes, school shootings, or police violence against the vulnerable, accountability is treated like the monster in a King novel – it pops up once, scares everybody, then gets buried in the backyard with no follow-up. Instead, blame gets rerouted like bad Wi-Fi. Rappers? Guilty. Athletes? Definitely guilty. Some actors who took a controversial role in a movie? Lock him up. Conveniently ignoring: that music labels, movie studios, and sports franchises are almost always controlled by – you guessed it – white executives in suits. But sure, let’s blame Kendrick Lamar because some kid from suburbia downloaded an album.

That’s the difference: Stephen King doesn’t lie to us. What I love about King is that he doesn’t hide it or play dress-up with excuses. He puts his nightmares on the page,”Here’s the monster, have fun.” And we line up around the block to say: “Yes, that’s exactly the kind of destruction I’d like to read with my morning coffee, thank you.” His work is a mirror – though admittedly, it’s the kind of mirror you’d find in a haunted house that whispers mean things about you.

His books aren’t just entertainment – they’re survival manuals. They prepare you for the horrors you already live with. Politicians, for instance, are basically Pet Sematary characters (they keep dying, we keep burying them, and some how they keep coming back meaner, uglier, and still promising lower gas prices), you stop being surprised. And like good horror fans, we keep showing up every election cycle with popcorn in hand, pretending we don’t know how it ends.

And the kicker? We pay to watch our own demise. Movies, streaming services, and election campaigns – it’s all one big horror franchise. That’s the genius of Stephen King. He doesn’t just scare us with monsters – he reminds us that society itself is often the villain. And usually? That villain is a white or white adjacent person with way too much power and way too little self-awareness. At least he’s honest about it. When it gets too close to home, America’s favorite defense kicks in: “Relax, it’s just a movie.” Sure. A movie you funded, produced, and starred in as “Innocent Bystander #5.”

That’s why Stephen King is America’s most honest man. He doesn’t just give us monsters – he reminds us the real villain, nine times out of ten, is society itself. And usually? A white guy with way too much confidence and a haircut that costs more than your car insurance.

So yes, give Stephen King his flowers. The man turned America’s collective darkest thoughts into a billion-dollar industry. In a country where accountability is harder to find than a good seat at a sold-out Taylor Swift concert, maybe honesty really is the scariest thing of all.

Do you recall the last time any of these examples were thrown in your face? How did the scales of justice or acknowledgment handle the scenario?

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