I've perhaps never
felt more out of touch culturally than when every magazine and
newspaper I picked up over the course of several days last month
suddenly had huge features on the ultra-mega phenomenon
ofStephenie
(not-sic) Meyer'sTwilightseries. The books were flying off
shelves at near-historic rates, her signings were mobbed, stores
were holding midnight releases for the latest installment. What?
When did allthathappen? Don't get me wrong: I
loved thedelicious
ironyof a suburban mother nonchalantly
having an idea for a vampire novel and it inexplicably turning into
the biggest thing in the world, especially while MFA creative
writing types simultaneously sat in cafes across the
nationtalking
andmopingabout writing. There's a degree
of purity and justice to that I find irresistible, even if my
ignorance of the result proves how disconnected from the zeitgeist
I truly am.
Do I care enough
to connect? AfterThe Da Vinci
Code, alas, probably not. And thanks
to Tegan Millspaw, I don't have to. She'sreviewed the
first volume. Best line:
"Call me crazy, but I don't think
there's ever been a time in my life where I've wished men were
obsessed with the scent of my blood." Oh, and there's also this
rule-of-thumb hardly anyone could disagree
with:
"As far as rocking her like a
father would, that's only sweet when 1. It's REALLY your father and
not your boyfriend who is struggling not to devour your blood and
2. you're a little kid. I think I'd find it pretty creepy if my dad
picked me up and rocked me like an infant....because, you know. I'm
an adult."