I was a holdout. A naysayer. A denier. I was too much of a snob to get involved in a cultural phenomenon (Star Wars was enough for me, thank you). But sitting at a family barbeque, I was a clueless idiot. My teen niece was hanging with the much more ‘in the know’ aunts, passionately discussing Edward, Bella, and Jacob. And I had nothing to add. I knew nothing of this. Even my insanely intelligent sister -in-law from West Virginia was hooked. I felt <gasp> left out.
So I did it. I jumped into the ocean of Stephenie Meyer. Well, I must confess I dipped my pedicured big toe in the water first by watching Twilight on DVD. And it was okay. Quite honestly, the best parts for me were the longing stares—across the cafeteria, across the parking lot, in the hallway, etc. And so, with trepidation swirling in my belly, I went to Target and picked up the first book.
And I read like a reformed cocaine addict who’d just fallen off the wagon (I purposely did not use heroin as an example because of one of my most despised lines in literary fiction—you know the one, all you Twi-hards. Sorry Steph). The only thing I’d read in five years was Sandra Boynton board books (Barnyard Dance is my favorite, just in case you were wondering). And so, I devoured Twilight in less than a day and found myself again at Target (how did I ever live without Target?) with New Moon firmly gripped in my hands, spittle dribbling from my chin. I needed another fix. One hit was most assuredly not enough.
Prior to even finishing New Moon, I found myself once again standing in line, my head fuzzy from the literary high. Eclipse and Breaking Dawn were happily scooting down the check out conveyer belt and I wielded my credit card like a sword. The woman running the register rolled her eyes at me. She apparently had seen many in my demented, strung out state. I was one of “them” now.
Fast forward. I finished all four books, though I confess Eclipse and the last fourth of Breaking Dawn was absolutely painful (so sorry Steph). Much can be said of the journey. I could talk for hours now about Edward, Bella, and hunky, ‘loved him better with long hair’ Jacob. Can’t tell which team I was on, can you?
But the journey for me was an inward one. I was once again the same chick (albeit it a much fatter chick) from high school and college who stayed up ‘til three a.m. because I just couldn’t put down Terry Brooks or Tad Williams.
And so I stand before you now, a book-loving phoenix, arisen from the ashes of children’s rhyming books*, a born again bibliophile.
For that, Stephenie Meyer, I sincerely thank you.
(*No books of any kind were actually harmed in the writing of this post)-Suzi Ryan