When Stephan King wrote Carrie, he intended to take the Cinderella story and twist it by its tail. He was even going to have Carrie leave one of her dancing shoes at the prom. He wrote it on a portable typewriter when he was living in a trailer and working as a janitor. Thinking he had written what was the beginning of the world’s all-time loser, he threw the first few pages of his draft into the bin, and Carrie might have never seen the light of day, had it not been for his wife, Tabby, who found it while emptying the trash. When she blew the cigarette ashes off the crumpled balls of paper, ironed them out with her hands and read the first few sentences, she realised that he had something there. “Tabby somehow knew it,” King said, and by the time he had piled up 50 single-spaced pages, he knew it too. But he still didn’t expect much of Carrie. He didn’t think anyone would want to read a book about a poor little girl with menstrual problems. Little did he know that she would win our hearts for being just that: a poor little girl who wants to fit in just like us.

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