Confessions of a Closet Twilight Fan

I’ve heard all the arguments about why Twilight is horrible: sub-par writing, doesn’t stick to the “rules” about vampires, confusing love with obsession and lust — the list goes on.

I’ve heard them all, and I agree with them. When I step back and take a good, long look at the story and the characters, I can find nothing redeeming about the series. My friends know me as the person who loves to expound on why and how much I dislike the series.

What they don’t know is that Twilight is also something I can’t stay away from. “my own personal brand of heroin,” if you will. I watch the first movie on a fairly regular basis, I have the books on my Kindle (so my friends won’t see them on my bookshelf), I listen to both the score and the soundtrack from the first movie regularly, and I can play “Bella’s Lullaby” on the piano (both Carter Burwell’s version and Yiruma’s “River Flows in You”). There is something about Twilight that completely sucks me in and refuses to release me until I have completed the story.


This week Twilight captured me again, but this time it took me to a new place. I read Midnight Sun, Stephenie Meyer’s (sadly) unfinished version of Twilight told from Edward’s point of view.

I hated it.

I loved it.

I hated how little Edward’s side felt like love and how much it felt like psychopathic, lustful obsession.

I loved how Midnight Sun reflected the truth that love makes ordinary seem extraordinary, such as with Edward’s perception of Bella’s beauty (or at the beginning of the story, her lack thereof).

Twilight is undeniably bad for me. It makes me think of too many things I would rather forget about. Yet I keep going back to it, over and over, and I will very probably go back again and again.

Why can’t I keep from liking something I know I dislike?



On Ghosts in the Hall

Today I am the only person at work in my department.  While I am holding down the fort, answering emails and the phone, processing periodicals and check-ins, the other departments keep walking up and down my hall. On a normal day this does not faze me, but on a normal day there are five other people in the office with me. We make noise; we chat, answer phones, type on keyboards, squeak chairs, click mouses (mice?), and breathe. Our noises cover up the sounds of people in the hall. I do not make enough noise on my own to conceal said noises, not by far.

Yes, I know it is just people waking to and from their offices, but being alone in this big empty office makes them seem more like ghosts than like people. The building I work in used to be a men’s dormitory before being converted into office space. Sixty years ago the original dormitory burned to the ground, leading to this odd, w-shaped replacement building’s construction. Surely a plot of land with such history has a hoard of ghosts to throw at lonesome fort-holders, no?