I think I've hit the wall on serial killers. The book I'm reading, dubbed not-put-downable by lots of critics, languishes on my night stand, very probably because I don't care any more how many ways there are to die screaming.
I have the same feeling I had as a much younger woman when I began to realize that I didn't want to wade through sex scenes, no longer cared how the author described the fitting together of male and female anatomies. Enough. I get it. I'll skip to where the story starts again. But thanks for trying, I guess.