"You beat a typewriter instead of your meat."

Get this: We have a famous writer (with a substance abuse problem) that both needs and hates a serial killer keeping him tortured, numb, focused, yet ultimately captive (WOMP WOMP). Annie Wilkes is given plenty of psychoanalysis and sympathy—she is a great villain because of how juvenile, dangerous, and real she feels on the page. She exists as both a vessel for King to pour his frustration with his fans and critics into, and as the monster of his vocally addressed past addiction. We practically fully understand that autocritique, chest-beating, and Big Metaphor in the first quarter of this book. It then runs in circles and plays out exactly how you expect it to for the remainder. King writes like a Rolls Royce stuck in the mud, flooring it. It's well-typed, not well-written. Every 't' is crossed, every 'i' dotted, and I cannot stop rolling my eyes.