It’s just possible that I am among the last of the human species to read Stephenie Meyer's Twilight, but there’s a reason.
I had it pretty well pegged. It was a lot like reading a Harlequin Romance with vampires.
My fourteen year old had tried to warn me with his assessment. “Mom, it’s an amazingly plotless chick book.” He hadn’t finished it by the time I picked it up a few days ago. I have to add that all the action he is looking for is after his bookmark wedged interminably at page 382.
I will admit that when I was a fourteen year old, I read Harlequin Romances – more like ate them voraciously. In doing so, I quickly realized the formula and rarely looked back. So I can completely see why a bunch of fourteen year old girls would be completely enamored of Twilight. However, I am bewildered by the fascination it holds for adults. Although I can see how someone could laze on the beach and finish the series in summer vapid reading.
But it’s really not my kind of book. It seems all that drama could have been taken care of much more intensely in less than half of the nearly 500 page tome - and left me more inclined to purchase the rest of the series.
I bet in this case, the movie is better. Not something I usually would say, book lover that I am. But I am a movie lover, too.