Oh, and she cuts off his foot and his thumb. Meanwhile, she feeds him painkillers until he becomes addicted and comes to depend on her for them. Take the infamous example of his 1987 novel Misery, about a novelist who, after recently killing off the recurring heroine of his romance novels so that he can focus on more serious works, gets into a bad car wreck and winds up in a small Colorado town, where he’s tended to by Annie Wilkes, a former nurse and his “number-one fan.” Wilkes holds the novelist hostage, and when she discovers that he’s axed her favorite character, she demands that he write a new book to bring her back to life. What I’m talking about are the messier ways King’s personal struggles are incorporated into his high-concept storytelling. Although he’s written pretty much every kind of story one can tell-horror tales, detective fiction, romances, dramas, sci-fi, fantasy, period pieces, and fables-what interests me most about King’s fiction is not how inventive or creative or just plain berserk it often is, but rather how nakedly personal, how psychologically autobiographical it can be. From mass-market paperbacks purchased at the grocery store when I was twelve to now writing about his latest novel Fairy Tale at thirty-seven, King has been my sporadic companion. I’ve been reading Stephen King my entire life.
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