Last week someone asked me if I had a blog. I paused, then laughed and said, "Yes! It has one entry." I wasn't even sure if I could find my blog. But here it is, just like I left it . . . eight months ago. Evidently it wasn't time yet. Now it is. For now, at least, I'm going to mix new entries with essays and poems I've already written.
So, here's an essay I wrote last week for my writing group. We'll start on a light note.
But last Christmas, when the kids were breaking their personal best for bickering and the house was hopelessly trashed with stocking stuffers and Legos and bat cave characters, my sister handed me a book: Twilight. Really? A young adult fantasy about teenage vampires? Who had time to read, anyway? I was dubious but desperate. I sat down on a chair in the eye of the holiday hurricane and opened to Chapter 1.
It was a magic book. When I lifted the cover, I couldn’t hear the screaming or the tattling or the video games. I didn’t mind if the kids were killing each other or setting fire to the kitchen trying to make mac & cheese on their own. They were hungry, after all, because when my book was open, I wasn’t their cook anymore. Or their maid. Or their referee. I was in Forks, Washington, with my new friends. I barely ate, myself. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t bathe. I didn’t leave Forks till a week and a half later, when I read page number 2,444 and reluctantly closed the last volume.
When Stephenie Meyer wrote Twilight, she was a stay-at-home mom of three small children. She had a dream one night about a young couple sitting in a meadow with true love in the air. Only, the rendezvous could end badly; the young man was a vampire. The dream was so vivid and compelling, Meyer didn’t want to forget it. So the next day she did the bare minimum to keep her children alive and spent the day writing. The story didn’t end with the dream, so she kept writing. Then she wanted to know how Bella and Edward had met, so she backed up and wrote her way to the meadow. She typed with one hand while breastfeeding. She took a notebook to soccer games. She got up in the night when the baby cried or when she saw a new scene.
I’m not sure I want to know what draws me to the drama of these teenagers. I know they woke up a person I used to be or a person I wanted to be. A passionate person. A brave person. I know the 17-year-old me was alive, full throttle, not knowing life could be otherwise. I know I wouldn’t go back to those years of drama even if I could. And I know this little fantasy in Forks isn’t the stuff of great literature. But we’re all doing our best to get by each day, aren’t we? More than anything, we want to feel alive, don’t we? For as long as I need it, I’m going to self-medicate with Twilight. Because I’m a grown-up and I can do whatever I want.
So, here's an essay I wrote last week for my writing group. We'll start on a light note.
Confession
How did it come to this? I was a literature major in college. I went one-on-one with Beowulf, Chaucer, Milton, Austen. I lurked in the shadows with Flaubert, rode the blurry line of sanity through Equus, dissolved into the cadence of Shakespeare. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and I brought out the best in each other. Give me a stanza from Blake, and I could dissect it down to the atom.
But last Christmas, when the kids were breaking their personal best for bickering and the house was hopelessly trashed with stocking stuffers and Legos and bat cave characters, my sister handed me a book: Twilight. Really? A young adult fantasy about teenage vampires? Who had time to read, anyway? I was dubious but desperate. I sat down on a chair in the eye of the holiday hurricane and opened to Chapter 1.
It was a magic book. When I lifted the cover, I couldn’t hear the screaming or the tattling or the video games. I didn’t mind if the kids were killing each other or setting fire to the kitchen trying to make mac & cheese on their own. They were hungry, after all, because when my book was open, I wasn’t their cook anymore. Or their maid. Or their referee. I was in Forks, Washington, with my new friends. I barely ate, myself. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t bathe. I didn’t leave Forks till a week and a half later, when I read page number 2,444 and reluctantly closed the last volume.
When Stephenie Meyer wrote Twilight, she was a stay-at-home mom of three small children. She had a dream one night about a young couple sitting in a meadow with true love in the air. Only, the rendezvous could end badly; the young man was a vampire. The dream was so vivid and compelling, Meyer didn’t want to forget it. So the next day she did the bare minimum to keep her children alive and spent the day writing. The story didn’t end with the dream, so she kept writing. Then she wanted to know how Bella and Edward had met, so she backed up and wrote her way to the meadow. She typed with one hand while breastfeeding. She took a notebook to soccer games. She got up in the night when the baby cried or when she saw a new scene.
I’m not sure I want to know what draws me to the drama of these teenagers. I know they woke up a person I used to be or a person I wanted to be. A passionate person. A brave person. I know the 17-year-old me was alive, full throttle, not knowing life could be otherwise. I know I wouldn’t go back to those years of drama even if I could. And I know this little fantasy in Forks isn’t the stuff of great literature. But we’re all doing our best to get by each day, aren’t we? More than anything, we want to feel alive, don’t we? For as long as I need it, I’m going to self-medicate with Twilight. Because I’m a grown-up and I can do whatever I want.
Love it! Love you! :o)
ReplyDeleteI am so thrilled to have this venue to enjoy your beautiful writing, Kris. Thank you for being courageous and pressing the pen to the paper.
ReplyDeleteMy Dear Kristina
ReplyDeleteI believe it may be the story of the author that draws and inspires you more than the teenagers themselves. Someone who was taken over by a story that had to come through her. A story with huge impact that served the masses to entertain and inspire them. She broke through the bonds of her idea of what being a "good" parent was, and allowed the work to flow through her as it needed to. Which, given the success, probably even allows for her to provide her children everything she had ever hoped. She was a mother AND a fabulous writer...JUST LIKE YOU :-) Keep the posts coming, I look forward to reading each and everyone.
Twilight? Really? All right, then. You've convinced met to pick it up next time I see it at the thrift store. Stephanie's story is somewhat reminiscent of J. K. Rowling's...a mom, trying to care for her child, with a story that needed to be told. I give TONS of credit to Harry Potter for inspiring kids to read. The whole Twilight-esque genre has exploded, too. I love to give books as gifts and love to see people buying books as gifts. I tried to get Hugo Cabret for my son for Christmas, and it wasn't available ANYwhere.
ReplyDeleteMost readers of Twilight wouldn't know Madame Bovary from the Mayflower Madam. Paradise Lost sounds like a GREAT reality show! If you tell me Twilight is worth reading, I'll try to stay awake to do that! Thanks for the essay.
Oh! Krissy! I just remembered something funny this reminds me of....One day at lunch, I mentioned that I'd seen the movie "Speed" the night before. You laughed, and said something like, "I LOVE that movie...and I'm so ashamed that I love that movie!" You made us all laugh. (Do you make Chinese Noodle Slaw for your family?)
ReplyDelete