Stephen King, the 77-year-old master of horror, told The Times of London that he fears the creeping onset of dementia could mean his next book is the last he ever writes. In a rare, candid moment, King described how forgetting a single word now triggers an existential panic that affects both his creative process and his sense of self.
King, whose career spans more than 65 novels and hundreds of short stories, said he writes nearly every day from his Maine home, producing around 1,200 words per session. But during one recent writing session, he stumbled over a term—an evocative word he could not recall—that crystallized his anxiety.
“There’s a word for that and I can’t f—ing remember what it is,” he confessed, referring to a story in The Life of Chuck wherein the world ends as one man’s life comes to a close. “It is the idea that we all contain the world and the world disappears when we disappear,” he said—and then added, “That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of that happening to me and every time that I can’t remember a word or something, I think, ‘This is the start.’”
King named the late author Terry Pratchett—who died after suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s—as a cautionary example. “The mind that created the Discworld in 41 novels was foundering, and with it an entire magical universe was coming to an end,” King said, adding that he doesn’t want the same fate to befall his storytelling mind.
Despite his fears, King said he still plans to write “at least one more book.” At the same time, he was careful not to make any further promises. “Beyond that, man, I’m not going to say… I’d like to go out where people say, ‘I’d like another one,’” he told the newspaper. He also voiced discomfort with the notion of posthumous releases, calling the idea that unfinished manuscripts might be issued after his death “creepy.”
King’s next book, a children’s picture book retelling of Hansel & Gretel, is set for release on September 2. It’s among several adaptations and projects emerging from his work this year: The Life of Chuck has become a film starring Tom Hiddleston; The Long Walk is being adapted by the director of The Hunger Games; The Running Man is on track as a major motion picture starring Glen Powell; and The Institute has become a television series on MGM+.
King’s fears, though, run deeper than just the creative process. In his tidy attic office, which he described as panelled in wood and lit by his daily routine of morning writing sessions, he’s also concerned about tools that might replace him—literally. “Once you teach AI to write a novel, a good novel, it’s going to be a different ballgame,” he said. “I like to think that I can stay ahead of AI in the time that I have left.”
King’s concern over aging, memory, and legacy underscores a broader anxiety about the longevity of his work. He said he still reads voraciously and stays connected to the craft of storytelling, sometimes worrying his own writing won’t live up to expectations. “As I get older, of being able to lose the ability to communicate, and I really don’t want to continue in decline,” he said, recognizing a deeper fear beyond mere creative loss.
This anxiety returns him to the early days of his career when he was known as “Richard Bachman.” Newer fans might not recall the detail, but King once used the pseudonym to publish darker, more experimental work. Now, in 2025, he’s found himself in a position of reckoning—not with a fictional villain, but with time itself.
King’s openness about his fears is uncommonly personal. Few public figures of his stature admit to such vulnerability. It’s a reminder that even in the face of creative reverence, the mind that powers imagination remains fragile. His voice today, seasoned yet uneasy, confirms he’s aware of the distance between the man who wrote Carrie and the man he is now.
The question is, how much longer can readers expect him to write? King doesn’t pretend to know. He wants to end his career “where people say, ‘I’d like another one,’” not with reckless output or shadowed by decline. Whether health ends his career or he chooses to retire on his own terms, his words—those that pour onto the page, and those he can no longer find—will matter.
In the meantime, the world watches not just for new releases, but for every sign of the storyteller still capable of holding onto the words that have shaped decades.
