In May of last year, Stephen King introduced us to Never Flinch, a crime thriller that spotlights Holly Gibney, a private detective. Initially a minor character in Mr. Mercedes, Holly has since evolved into a fan favorite, appearing in 11 of King’s works. Over the past decade, King has increasingly ventured into the realm of crime thrillers, diverging from his typical supernatural narratives, yet maintaining elements of both. However, the development of Holly Gibney as a recurring protagonist is perhaps the most intriguing twist. In King’s extensive repertoire, which generally avoids sequels and repeat main characters, Holly stands out as an anomaly, hinting at something deeper than mere preference for quirky, anxious women.

To grasp the significance of Holly Gibney, consider King’s debut novel, Carrie. The tale of an abused teenager who exacts violent revenge during her prom night has become well-known through various adaptations. Despite its somewhat rigid delivery, the original novel remains powerful, largely due to the empathy it evokes for Carrie’s predicament. Carrie symbolizes countless small-town girls whose introversion and social struggles make them easy prey for their peers seeking to fit in.

Interestingly, King admitted in On Writing that while he felt pity for Carrie White, he never truly understood her. Revisiting the novel reveals a certain detachment in the third-person omniscient narration not applied to other characters. For instance, Carrie’s mother, Margaret, is depicted as a monstrous, abusive zealot, portrayed with a directness absent when narrating Carrie’s own story.

As King’s career progressed, this differentiation became more pronounced. His “ordinary” female protagonists (like Sue Snell from Carrie, Susan Norton from ‘Salem’s Lot, and Wendy Torrance from The Shining) are portrayed in a very limited manner—concerned with typical, everyday issues.

A prime example is Donna Trent from Cujo, whose small-town ennui leads to an affair. While Donna is portrayed sympathetically, it often seems like King’s female characters from this era are variations on a theme, exploring the challenges of womanhood as seen through an empathetic outsider’s eyes.

However, King’s true enthusiasm seems reserved for his antagonists. From Margaret White to Annie Wilkes of Misery—a delusional killer obsessed with a novelist—these characters are crafted with a palpable zeal. In On Writing, King reflects on the joy of exploring Annie’s bizarre world.

This pattern of disturbed or villainous mothers runs throughout King’s body of work, revealing a recurring theme of problematic parenthood, particularly among mothers.

It’s not appropriate to speculate on what this might mean for King personally. Rather, it’s more productive to consider how this theme has evolved over his career, suggesting a long-term exploration of certain ideas.

Holly Gibney, while not a mother and certainly not villainous, shares some traits with King’s more notorious characters, such as her compulsive behavior and meticulousness. Yet unlike King’s typical maternal figures, Holly exhibits a nurturing side towards other characters, demonstrating self-sacrifice and a commitment to doing what’s right, even at personal cost.

This isn’t a Freudian analysis of Stephen King; rather, it’s a way to understand why King might be particularly drawn to Holly. Unlike previous female characters, Holly represents a new narrative exploration for King, showing that even after decades of writing, he can still discover fresh facets to his storytelling. Holly might not resonate with everyone, but King’s evident affection for her—and the way that affection seems to liberate something within his own creative process—is compelling.