a story with teeth

Recently, in an effort to see what all the fuss was about, I picked up the book Twilight. For those of you who have been deported and may not recognize the title, Twilight is about the star-crossed love affair between a young teenage girl named Bella and a bloodsucking fiend with a heart of gold named Edward. I ended up reading all 498 pages over the span of a couple lunch breaks. This is less a testament to my reading skill than it is a commentary on the writing. As weighty as cotton candy; yet sweeter and a whole lot stickier. Do teenage girls really think this way? I'm hoping I never did, though I really can’t remember. I will admit that around page 12, I started fighting off an overpowering urge to doodle little hearts and flowers in the margins.

I’m guessing the working title of this book may have been Ode to the Adjective. The author piles on so many that they start to obliterate the point of every sentence -- shrewdly distracting readers from the fact that the plot isn’t exactly hustling along. I’d plow through maybe 65 pages of angst-laden musings on alabaster cheekbones and gleaming white teeth, and then realize that -- during this actual span of time -- two characters had walked in the front door and made a bowl of cereal.

Now don’t get me wrong. On paper, at least, a physically dazzling figure like Edward can certainly get the average female heart fluttering. But ladies of the 21st century, let’s consider for a moment: Here’s a guy who follows you around in his car. He shows up in your room unannounced. He picks you up and carries you places. He stares at you while you’re trying to watch a good movie. He hovers above you while you talk in your sleep. He selects the food you eat. He keeps reminding you that you’re a hopeless klutz. And he absolutely will not stop playing with your hair. This reminds me of the way my cat used to mess with my hamster. Did somebody mention swooning? I would slug this clown, then slap a restraining order on him for good measure.

I know how the author could have pared this story down: substitute me for the lead female. Now certainly, the book would have easily lost its best-seller status. But on the flipside, it would have gained the dubious distinction of shortest vampire love story in history.

Me: Do you want some lasagna?
Edward: You’re so adorably human. Here you are thinking about food and I’m absolutely riveted by your bottomless amber eyes …
Me: My what?
Edward: ... and so hopelessly addicted to the honeysuckle aroma of your hair; it’s like a glorious summer meadow.
Me: Are you sleepwalking? Shut up. Do you want one breadstick, or two?
Edward: No, I think I’ll just silently worship you while you microwave the plate.
Me: Okay, really now, back off because you’re creeping me out. And stop rearranging my bangs.
Edward: I just love when you get infuriated -- the color rises in your cheeks like the blush of fine champagne.
Me: All right nimrod, I mean it. Get out in seven seconds or I’m calling the cops. Six ... five ... four ...

This would be followed by a short epilogue illustrating the futility of macing a vampire, capped off by my own horrible (yet tastefully tween-friendly) demise. The follow-up novel, a prequel (not like there would be sufficient reader demand, but this is my blog, so you know, go with it) could include real-life snippets of dialog taken from my own living room:

Me: I got us a movie for tonight.
Him: Okay.
Me: It’s (dramatic pause) The Bridges of Madison County.
Him: Oh.
Me: Do you want me to make popcorn? Because I could toss it with those little parmesan sprinkles.
Him: Um, yeah. Can I finish watching the game now?

The title of this one could be Fade to Black -- fitting, since it would undoubtedly be the final book in the series. (p.s. -- Click here for an entertaining count of adjectives in Twilight, organized by category for those keeping score.)