After reading my post with all those extraordinary and delightful book recommendations, my friend Marta immediately handed me the first two books in that crack-like Twilight vampire series.
I read Twilight in a night, snuggled in bed with a pint of frozen yogurt. Both were delicious. I was almost equally invested in both. Almost.
I then went on to devour New Moon, which I liked less, but which I understand sets you up well for the third and fourth. Which I cannot wait to read.
And it bothers me. Because I think I should be smarter than this.
The Harry Potter books, they were so well written, and there were all these cool references to clever things. Rowling's character, place, and object names were excellent. Her imagination is fabulous. Her descriptions vivid.
And the Twilight books? Not so much.
The author, she is not a great writer. She's not overly creative. She repeats adjectives.
And yet, I love these books. And I have to face the fact that I'm all kinds of invested in teenage high school angst. Or rather, teenage high school vampire angst.
I will say that I got fairly annoyed in the second book with all the "I love you but I'm not worthy. I don't deserve you." "No, I love you and I'm the one who isn't worthy. I don't deserve you more."
Stupid. But didn't stop me. Even through this, I can't wait to read the next one.
And I am all, oh, dude, just vampire her already! And then you can get it on. Because you cannot make me believe that you are seriously going to go through all four or five or whatever of these fucking books with nothing but declarations of intense, angsty love, and constant internal struggle and occasional passionate kisses and holding of ice cold hands?
And then I think, seriously, Lis? This is the part you're finding unrealistic about these little tales?