Everyone was doing it. Long ago I had committed to memory the illustration of the glowing apple centered on the glossy black cover, even though I had never seen what lay inside. It had acted as a prop in every scene performed around Castilleja: the girl curled up in the “special secret chair” in the back corner of the library, the lunch table full of students who fastened the book between their thumbs and index fingers as they read with one hand and ate feverishly with the other, the carefree circle of girls whose uniform polos were hiked up past their midriffs, their backs glued to the grassy expanse that gave life to Castilleja, and their arms extended towards the sun above them, the book propped within their fingertips a foot above their chests. I, wanting to be the archetypal middle school standout that admonishes whatever is trendy, resisted the urge to succumb to society’s temptation. I zoned out of many conversations about the godliness of the protagonist’s lover, swiftly scrolled over the endless posts about upcoming movie plans that filled my newly-acquired Facebook, and somehow managed to pull off a French maid costume for my eighth grade Halloween in lieu of dressing as a vampire or a werewolf.
But one fateful day, perhaps by accident and likely by inevitability, the first book of the Twilight Saga weaved its way into my lap; and once some anonymous force propelled me to turn the dirtied, crinkled pages, I had become a “Twi-Hard.”
Twilight soon became my home away from my home. It became not only a nightly affair I could look forward to, but also a comfort mechanism I could depend upon. At age thirteen, my life tottered between two existences: the familiar comfort of true childhood, and the unexplored territory of my teenaged future. Twilight was my ladder to the latter. Its heroine, the lackluster Bella Swan, was sinking her teeth into teenage girl fantasies, and this simply enthralled me. My naïve self idealized the acquisition of immortality by way of a boy who stole all the charms of the world. I channeled my own adolescent afflictions and ambitions into the page-turning prose of Stephanie Meyer.
In many ways, Twilight also became my place of refuge. Whatever trivial tribulation stopped me in my tracks, I could dodge a corner into Twilight’s alley; this gave me a strange, superficial sense of security. But I inevitably became too obsessed for my own good. By the third book, Twilight’s tantalizing tales had become preferential to any real human experience I was having, even if such experience was predominantly good. Initially, I didn’t start reading Twilight because I sought some ulterior form of fulfillment in my life; but when I closed the last chapter of the final manuscript, I felt an emptiness I had never felt before. My literary lifeline had passed on. I would now have to pry apart the two worlds I had synchronized: my sincere reality and my fictitious fantasy.
Four years and a portfolio of literary and life experience later, I can easily scrutinize Twilight’s shortcomings. That the text is depleted of any drop of profundity is something any of its age-sixteen-and-up readers could tell you. The writing is a hollow expanse of malleable archetypes whose emotion—or lack thereof—is superficial and superhuman. Furthermore, the classic “Show, not tell” technique that is likely the header of the first page of Writing for Dumbies is, apparently, too expected for a story so bewildering…at least, that’s the only way I can justify the lamentable lack of linguistic illustration.
Sure, I can now pull back the curtain that hides the empty truths of the characters. But I can also appreciate the impact Twilight had on my development as an audience member who spent two years keenly seated in the front row. Twilight might be considered blasphemous in pretentious literary circles, but the formative effects it has had on its adolescent audience are pretty brilliant in my book. I feel no regret for my membership in the Twi-Hard Alumni Association.
But one fateful day, perhaps by accident and likely by inevitability, the first book of the Twilight Saga weaved its way into my lap; and once some anonymous force propelled me to turn the dirtied, crinkled pages, I had become a “Twi-Hard.”
Twilight soon became my home away from my home. It became not only a nightly affair I could look forward to, but also a comfort mechanism I could depend upon. At age thirteen, my life tottered between two existences: the familiar comfort of true childhood, and the unexplored territory of my teenaged future. Twilight was my ladder to the latter. Its heroine, the lackluster Bella Swan, was sinking her teeth into teenage girl fantasies, and this simply enthralled me. My naïve self idealized the acquisition of immortality by way of a boy who stole all the charms of the world. I channeled my own adolescent afflictions and ambitions into the page-turning prose of Stephanie Meyer.
In many ways, Twilight also became my place of refuge. Whatever trivial tribulation stopped me in my tracks, I could dodge a corner into Twilight’s alley; this gave me a strange, superficial sense of security. But I inevitably became too obsessed for my own good. By the third book, Twilight’s tantalizing tales had become preferential to any real human experience I was having, even if such experience was predominantly good. Initially, I didn’t start reading Twilight because I sought some ulterior form of fulfillment in my life; but when I closed the last chapter of the final manuscript, I felt an emptiness I had never felt before. My literary lifeline had passed on. I would now have to pry apart the two worlds I had synchronized: my sincere reality and my fictitious fantasy.
Four years and a portfolio of literary and life experience later, I can easily scrutinize Twilight’s shortcomings. That the text is depleted of any drop of profundity is something any of its age-sixteen-and-up readers could tell you. The writing is a hollow expanse of malleable archetypes whose emotion—or lack thereof—is superficial and superhuman. Furthermore, the classic “Show, not tell” technique that is likely the header of the first page of Writing for Dumbies is, apparently, too expected for a story so bewildering…at least, that’s the only way I can justify the lamentable lack of linguistic illustration.
Sure, I can now pull back the curtain that hides the empty truths of the characters. But I can also appreciate the impact Twilight had on my development as an audience member who spent two years keenly seated in the front row. Twilight might be considered blasphemous in pretentious literary circles, but the formative effects it has had on its adolescent audience are pretty brilliant in my book. I feel no regret for my membership in the Twi-Hard Alumni Association.
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