Stephenie Bit Me, Too!

By Bob Chrisman


Yesterday evening as I sat in my favorite coffee shop and drank my French press of Irish Breakfast tea, I finished Twilight, Book One of the Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer.

In August when I decided to read the series as a result of the red Ravine post My Kid Got Bit By Stephenie Meyer, the library waiting lists for each book spanned anywhere from 18 days to over three months. I placed reserves on all of them, including her new book for adults, and waited.

Fate ordained that I would read Books Two through Four first and then receive Book One. (Not as bad as my experience with Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin, where I read the series in reverse order—kind of like a life review of the characters.) In the case of the Twilight Series, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t known how the tale began because each book told a complete and fascinating story.

Sometimes I read long into the night, well past my bedtime. After I finished New Moon (Book Two and the first book that arrived from the library) Meyer had transformed this 56-year-old, full-figured white guy from Missouri, not into a vampire but into a fan. (I still laugh thinking that ybonesy advised me when I told her I was going to read the series, “…just remember it’s written for young adults.” Maybe I should listen to the people who tell me to grow up.)

The stories are classic vampire/werewolf tales, but with enough differences and twists to make them new and refreshing. These vampires can be out in the sun (sort of). They live in the Pacific Northwest, where the sun rarely shines (something I knew to be true for years despite my friends in Washington and Oregon who insist, “But the sun was shining yesterday before you arrived”).

Some of the vampires don’t kill humans to drink their blood—for ethical reasons. The werewolves aren’t really werewolves (but I can’t tell you what they are, since that information doesn’t come out until the final book, Breaking Dawn). They don’t morph into hot-blooded killers only during the full moon and you can’t kill them with silver bullets.

Most impressive, these books are not small. Breaking Dawn is almost 800 pages long. The fact that Ms. Meyer has written books that require an attention span of greater than 15 minutes and that teenagers have read them impresses me beyond words. This woman has lit a fire under her readers, which is now spreading to adults who typically won’t read “young adult” fiction. (My name, by the way, has inched close to the top of the reserved list at my local library for her book targeted to adults, The Host.)

I would have moved blissfully through the world without the knowledge of Stephenie Meyer or the main characters in the Twilight Series books—Edward Cullen, Jacob Black, and Isabella (Bella) Swan—had I ignored the post on red Ravine, but my life would lack a certain richness that these books brought to me. A good story offers more rewards than I can sometimes imagine, and these are good stories. Not once did I feel like I was reading young adult fiction.

If you love vampire stories, read these books. Try to read them in order—Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn—but if that’s not possible, just know that you can start anywhere in the series and not be lost (slightly confused for a short time, maybe, but not lost). You will not be sorry.

Once you’re done, tell me, Are you an Edward or a Jacob fan? You can only pick one.



Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer whose pieces Hands, Growing Older, and Goat Ranch have all appeared in red Ravine.

Read Full Post »

My Kid Got Bit By Stephenie Meyer

Raise your hand if you or someone you know is hooked on Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series of books. Chances are there are lots of hands in the air out there.

My twelve-year-old daughter got her copy of Breaking Dawn, the fourth and final book in the series, at a midnight release party last Saturday. She and her friends opted for independent bookstore Bookworks’ gathering, which included costume contests, psychic readings, and book giveaways.

Dee dressed in book cover theme colors of red, white, and black. She wore a red ribbon (from Eclipse, Book Three) on her leg, a red-and-white flower (from New Moon, Book Two) in her hair, and an apple (Twilight, Book One) tied to her belt. Had she found one, she’d have carried a chess piece (Breaking Dawn) too. 


     


Big disclaimer: I haven’t read any of the Twilight series books. However, I did hear all about them last school year on the days when I drove carpool for four mid-school-aged girls.

I learned about Isabella (Bella), the klutzy yet “normal” (which is to say, non-vampire and non-werewolf) girl, and Edward, the “vegetarian” (non-human-blood-sucking) vampire who loves her but also lusts for her blood. I learned there’s also a werewolf in the mix, Jacob, who becomes Bella’s good friend and eventual romantic rival to Edward.

I also found out that one girl in the carpool couldn’t stand the idea of Bella and Jacob together, whereas the other three were at least open to the idea. And I heard about all the funny things you discover when talking about books with friends: how they each envisioned Bella to look, how they all mispronounced certain place names, and just how excited they were about this series and the movie being made of the first book. (Release date: December 12. We’ll buy tickets in advance.)

But there was a lot I didn’t find out, such as the basic plot of the story, what moved it forward, and whether the writing is truly good (I think it must be; these kids are savvy readers). Especially after seeing Dee’s enthusiasm this past weekend, I’m left with an honest-to-goodness curiosity about the books myself.


Funny, Jim’s also cued in (now that he’s clued in) to the phenomenon of Stephenie Meyer. He pointed out this past weekend that her new book for adults, The Host, landed on the New York Times Bestseller list recently. And every other day, it seems, he is showing me yet another article about Meyer and Breaking Dawn.

The last such find, which appeared in the August 11 issue of Business Week, focused on how the series’ word-of-mouth success has come about because of Meyer’s unusual (for a blockbuster author) engagement with readers at book-signings and on social networking sites, her acting upon fan input (such as hosting a Twilight prom after a reader suggested it), and the way she has outwardly encouraged her fans to create related websites. For example, Twilight Lexicon was started with Meyer’s knowledge and blessing as a way to organize the books’ facts. It has since expanded to include a blog and a store, and is now one of the most popular places for kindred spirits to gather and converse.

Other articles highlight equally unusual aspects of the series and/or author: mother-daughter bonding over the series (Newsweek); increased tourism in the town of Forks, WA (Seattle Times), where Bella moves and her odyssey begins; and reactions to Meyer from the Church of Latter Day Saints, as the 34-year-old mother of three happens to be Mormon (Observer).

By now, Dee and her friends know who won over Bella. For some strange reason, I’m rooting for the werewolf. I’ll be in the dark until Saturday, though, when we pick up Dee from summer camp. I have a feeling we’ll hear all about Edward and Jacob and Bella on the drive home.

I also have a feeling that I might be part-way through Book One by then.



        



-Related to post Book Talk – Do You Let Yourself Read?

Read Full Post »

The Church Of Hobbit

Mrs. Rhodes Finds A Hobbit, doodle © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.

Mrs. Rhodes was my tenth grade English teacher at Valley High School. She was petite, with small ears, and she wore her long graying hair swooped up, often in a giant bun or thick braid.

In my mind I see her at the front of the class wearing a crisp white cotton shirt and a long denim skirt. She doesn’t sit at her desk so much as stands in front of it, stands with leather moccasin loafers and talks with arms flying in the air. She speaks of the genius of the written word. Then she says, “Class…,” says it in a nasally voice that draws out the word, “Claaasss…, it’s time to open our books and read.”

She walks in fast steps around her desk, pulls out the chair and drags it in front where she’s been standing. Sits down, opens her book to the page where we left off last session, and begins reading. Out loud, as if we are first graders.

The funny thing is, I remember nothing about The Hobbit. That’s the book she read out loud to us. I can’t remember if she assigned or read any other book. The only memory I have of Mrs. Rhodes is her reading The Hobbit, and the only memory I have of The Hobbit is Mrs. Rhodes reading it.

We open our books to the page she tells us. We cradle our copies with our arms, drop our heads inside our cradles, then sneak glances at one another. We know what’s coming. She starts reading. Her voice gets small and childlike. She reads slowly, much more slowly than we track in the page. For this reason I close my eyes and listen only to her voice. It floats in the space around us, but not loose and unanchored. It fills the room. There is depth in that voice. There is history and generations. She’s carrying something forward, passing it on. All this I detect in the stillness of the room, silent except for Mrs. Rhodes’ small singular voice.

And this is what I remember most. Always, the voice cracks. It wobbles and weaves, eventually stopping altogether. I don’t want to open my eyes. I beg in my head, Keep going, just keep going. Silence. A classroom full of 15-year-olds, some giggly and high, some asleep, most shuffling, moving waffle-stompered feet on the dirty linoleum. I look up. Mrs. Rhodes is fixated on the page, tears falling now. She doesn’t look at any of us. I can tell she is composing herself. She takes a wadded Kleenex and dabs her nose. Then she continues.

I want to recall what happened to the hobbits that made Mrs. Rhodes weep. Did someone die? Were they tortured? I tell myself I will re-read the book, perhaps read it out loud to Dee. Maybe I’ll cry, too. I cried at the end of Watership Down when Hazel was old and slipped away to the heavens. The emotion welled up from nowhere, it seemed, and I tried to keep it in, but in my trying it became big and full and caused me to tremble so much that Dee lifted herself from my side so she could turn and look at me. Was it the same for Mrs. Rhodes? Did she fall so headlong into the story that she couldn’t help but cry when the characters she loved slipped away?

She always made it through the crying; it never lasted long. Then she’d get to an exciting section. Here her voice drops to a whisper, as if we’re alongside the hobbits in the woods, crouching under bushes. If she speaks too loudly she’ll give away our position. Someone in the class snickers, one of the vatos who’s had enough. She immediately stops, snaps her head up to see who’s making fun.

“What is it?” she asks. He shakes his head, says nothing.

“Don’t you believe? They’re real, you know.”

She looks from him to each one of us, looks deeply with her blue eyes, imploring. You can tell she’s pleading, You believe, don’t you?? There is desperation in that room, in that teacher. Each person she looks at in turn looks down.

She wants us to believe the hobbits are real, like fairies or spirits. Real like this moment. This life. We are not in Literature. This is religion, spirituality. We’re either believers or we’re not. When she gets to me I hold her gaze. Not because I’m a believer. I don’t know what I am. I’m lost, but I’m not about to let this poor woman be alone in the world.

Where are you, Mrs. Rhodes? What ever happened to you? I know nothing about the book you had us read, nothing except this recollection of you and me and the class. Why didn’t it dawn on me before what you gave to us? I thought you were crazy. Maybe you were. But you believed with all your heart in something at a time when I believed in nothing and no one. You touched me, left me with one of the few imprints I have from that time of walking through halls stoned and apathetic.

Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes, for leaving me with faith.

Read Full Post »