Only ... Lisey’s Story always seemed to feel a little detached to me. It’s some of King’s best writing, to be sure, and some passages within it are compelling (especially the flashback sequences). But the front-story, which serves as an extended metaphor for the cycles of grief, never seemed all that involving. I’ve read the book twice now, and though I like it more the second time, I don’t know as if I’m ever going to love it like King himself does.

This is part of the reason, then, that Duma Key is such a surprise. I am compelled to compare the two novels because King himself does, referring to this one as his “divorce” novel. Only that’s not what it’s about, not really, and perhaps that’s the main difference. The main flaw in Lisey’s Story is that its main focus – indeed, its main character – is a dead person. Scott Landon, Lisey’s husband, is the force behind that novel, and unfortunately Lisey’s story is simply not as compelling as Scott’s is. (King fared better at this type of storytelling in From a Buick 8, where both the up-front and the backstory were equally interesting.)

Duma Key is the novel that King believes (believed?) Lisey’s Story to be, and in almost every way it is a better book. It’s plot, such as King novels have plots, is simple: Edgar Freemantle, a successful contractor, is severely injured on the job. His hip is crushed and he loses his right arm. More importantly, he loses his memory.

Not all of it, though: slowly, painfully, it comes back to him. The process, though, estranges his wife Pam and she divorces him. On the verge of suicide, Edgar takes the advice of his therapist and attempts a geographic cure: taking off from the frosty winter of Minnesota to the relatively balmy island of Duma Key, Florida. And then he starts to draw.

What happens from there is one of Stephen King’s most involving narratives to date. The surface story seems almost standard: it’s a ghost story of sorts, about the way the past (and the tricky burden of memory) has a way of slipping its bonds. As a horror story – even as a relatively gentle horror story – it works, and works well. There are enough rotting corpses and jumbo reptiles and shrouded figures with silvery eyes to satisfy the type of popcorn thrills you got from Cell. But like the best of King’s work, it works on an even more satisfying secondary level: once again, King is exploring the concept of creativity, and its will on the person who wields it.

It’s a well King has drawn from many times, most notably in It, Misery, The Shining, The Dark Half, and Bag of Bones (not incidentally, my five favorite Stephen King works). But in all those books, King has stuck with writing as his primary source of exploration. Here, King focuses on visual art, painting and sketching, and uncovers even more layers to this fascinating career-long obsession.

In Misery, Paul Sheldon finds himself removed from the distractions of his everyday life, and finds that he can summon ten to twelve pages a day without breaking a sweat. King’s own work ethic is very much in evidence: the reward for wtiting is writing, writing with such single-minded tenacity that it transcends work ethic and borders on compulsion. In Duma Key, Edgar Freemantle moves to Florida and gets lost in his art ... but for the first time, King seems to be questioning whether that type of singular devotion to your creativity is necessarily a good thing. There are possible metaphors that can be examined here – does creativity isolate you? do you own it or does it own you? – but that’s stretching the point. There are deep questions buried in Duma Key, and the most exciting thing of all is that King doesn’t give any hard answers. That he’s still finding new questions and new ways to talk about the art of creation is absolutely stunning.

Of course, none of this would work without terrific characters. Edgar Freemantle (a distant relation to Abigail, maybe?) is one of King’s better-drawn people; he has quirks and flaws, habits and idiosyncrasies. He admits to loving one of his daughters more than the other, but has the good grace to feel bad about it. Plus, in the midst of the story, which starts off fascinating and ends up exhilarating, King takes the time to quietly bond Edgar to the people around him. His relationship with his daughter Ilse is sweet and kind and unforced – I especially liked a nearly-awkward father-daughter conversation by a pool – and his friendship with his neighbor Wireman makes me think of Red and Andy Dufrense from “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption.” Or maybe Louis Creed and Jud Crandall from Pet Semetary. King’s handle on adult male friendships has always been strong, and he’s at the peak of his talents here. And I really liked his complicated relationship with his ex-wife Pam: sometimes sweet, sometimes wicked, all very real.

One wonders if it’s Edgar’s “geographic cure” that has revitalized King’s writing. I’m not one of those people who say King’s finally back, or This is King’s best since... That type of reviewing always seems lazy to me, and it disregards the fact that King has been putting out quality work for decades. To one degree or another, I’ve enjoyed all of King’s novels; even Dreamcatcher, my least favorite, had its moments. But there was something about the chase story “The Gingerbread Girl” – set in Florida, a first for King – that seemed to have a new kick to it, feeling less experimental and more vital than his recent short stories. In the same way, setting Duma Key in Florida seems to have opened up new possibilities. I’ll say that this was the most emotionally invested in a King novel than I’ve been since The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. Everything from the writing to the story to the characters seemed to exist in perfect harmony, and the change in scenery can’t be coincidental.

King has gone through several phases in his career as a writer. This may mark a new one. Duma Key is such a vital and important piece of writing that it almost seems like a first novel ... although with an assuredness and ease that it can only have come from a long-term professional. Duma Key thrilled me at every turn, at every page, and nothing about the book upset me so much as having finished it.