To read the fucking books, that is.

I couldn’t do it.

I almost never abandon a book. I sometimes put one down for awhile, and come back to it later. Years later, in some cases, but it’s rare that I set one aside with no intention of ever picking it up again. I’ve even finished books I hated because I felt as if I had some kind of responsibility toward them – like maybe I’d hurt their feelings if I didn’t. More recently, I’ve forged ahead with books I didn’t like so I could analyze why I didn’t like them, what about them wasn’t working for me.

In all my years as a reader, I’ve probably walked away from fewer than a dozen novels. One of them was Twilight.

I actually read the beginning several years ago, when someone handed me a free chapbook at Comic-Con. I didn’t think it was particularly well-written, but it seemed fairly harmless. I was frankly baffled when it blew up into the cultural sensation it’s become.

I read my friends’ commentary on it (I’m particularly fond of Oslowe’s write-up), and some reviews of the films, and thought I might sit down and read it someday, just to know what all the fuss was about.

And last week, I tried. I really did. But about halfway through the first book, I realized that I just didn’t care. I didn’t care about Bella, who likes to read but doesn’t seem to think. I didn’t care about Edward, who smirks and stalks and struts and smiles in the wrong places. I didn’t care about their scent-driven romance, or Edward’s iron self-control, or Bella’s inability to control her limbs. I didn’t care who was sitting next to whom (“front seat, back seat, which seat shall I take?“). 

Part of the problem, I think, is that Stephanie Meyers made the decision to write in first person, from the POV of a girl who’s bored and lonely and depressed, who thinks she’s ordinary and dull. If Bella doesn’t care about herself, then why should I care about her? A really good writer might be able to give me a reason, but Ms. Meyers isn’t a really good writer. She’s not a very good writer at all. (For a whole slew of examples, with copyediting and commentary, check out Reasoning with Vampires.)

Somewhere in the darkness of their shared Biology class, as they sat watching a film neither of them cared about, I decided Bella and Edward could get along fine without me. Before I left them for good, though, I looked up the sex scene from Breaking Dawn that the R-Rated Person in last month’s coffee shop sequence described as, “Where they skip over the whole thing and she wakes up bloody and bruised?”

It really does read like that.

(And Edward really does perform a C-Section with his teeth, which is actually kind of awesome, but also really disturbing. Especially in a novel billed more as romance than as horror.)

And with that, I was done. I’ve read enough to understand some of the appeal – I probably would have devoured the series if I’d started it when I was 15 (though sadly, it would have reinforced some of my less-sensible relationships) – and more than enough to know that it holds no appeal for me. I hope Bella and Edward are very happy together, somewhere far away from me.

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That didn’t keep her from finishing the series, though. She hated the last book. “It just wrapped up so fast,” she said. “It was wholly unsatisfying. It was like the publisher said, ‘Oh, we told you have two more months, but we need it tomorrow.’”

“They probably did,” he said. “That was probably about the time the film option came in, and she had to finish it fast.”

They moved on to Sucker Punch (“I’m really glad I get to be the first to tell you this,” she said. “You were right. It was awful.”); how Zach Snyder landed another big-budget film (she’s neither read nor seen Watchmen, but he thinks Snyder ruined it, and has a theory that America’s submerged homesexual desires account for the success of 300); life drawing by way of Dr. Sketchy’s; and then back around to YA literature.

“The book I’m writing is YA,” he said.

“”Why,” she asked. “I mean, okay this is a little weird, so just stay with me. You’re like… an R-rated person. Anyone really interesting is. So why would you… I guess it seems like almost dumbing yourself down to try and write for kids.”

And as I’m siting there hoping he’ll tell her that YA literature is much more realistic, complex and interesting than she’s giving it credit for, he admits that his first draft contains far too many repetitions of the word “fuck,” and that he’s struggling to work in a sex scene.

“There’s a sex scene in Twilight,” she says.

“What? Where they skip over the whole thing and she wakes up bloody and bruised? I’m not going to do it like that. I think I’ll just sort of mention it happened, without really ever saying anything about it.”

“So why are you doing it as a kid’s book?” she asked again. “Is it just for the story, or…”

“Oh, no,” he said. “It’s for the money.”

I gathered up my phone, jacket and bag while he launched into an explanation of the YA market. Even had I been able to call one of the many excellent writers in my extended network who’s producing intelligent, challenging YA, I doubt either of them would have listened.

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A Past Masterpiece

Attention, Los Angeles:

I will be dancing at Froggy’s Sunday afternoon, in Melanie Kareem’s “My Masterpiece” show. Doors open at 2:15. From 2:30 to 3, several of her newest students will be dancing, then her more experienced dancers (including myself) take the stage from 3 to 5.

The bar will be open, I hear there will be appetizers available, and the restaurant opens for dinner right after the show.

This may well be my last public performance in LA, so I’d  love to see some of you there.

Update: I will be dancing between 3:40 and 4, and NovySan and I will be staying for dinner after the show, if anybody would like to join us.

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When I woke up Tuesday morning, it hurt worse, and this time it didn’t respond to the NSAID. As the day went on, the pain got worse, and the left side of my throat swelled until NovySan said, “You’d better go to the doctor tomorrow.”

And so I did. She found a big chunk of wax in that ear (it’s not the first time I’ve had to have wax flushed out of a sore ear, but it is the first time in more than 20 years), and enough inflammation to prescribe antibiotics, even though she thought the sore throat was viral.

Wednesday night, my temperature spiked, and I woke up in the middle of the night in so much pain I was shaking. More Aleve, an ice pack on the side of my head, and as soon as Kaiser opened, I emailed my doctor. “Keep taking the antibiotics,” she said, “and if it’s not better tomorrow, come back.”

Today it is better. It is so much better. The pain’s receded to a dull ache, the fever’s down to a degree that doesn’t make me feel floaty and half-unreal, my throat’s half the size it was yesterday, and if some of the swelling’s been replaced by an ugly white patch, I know that’ll be gone in a day or two.

I know this little episode will go down as “an illness to remember,” but at the end of it – I could just kiss Alexander Fleming on the top of his pointy little head.

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A couple of years ago, though, when Slackmistress started the Couch to 5K program as part of her Post-Apocalyptic Workout, I thought, “Maybe I could do that.” And I tried it, and sometimes it wasn’t too bad, but mostly my shins hurt and my knees complained and even when I got my boobs properly strapped in (with the help of an industrial-style sports bra that holds everything firmly in place, but also shapes it into a rocket-nose-cone that any 50s sweater girl would envy), I could feel my belly pudge jiggling and it freaked me out, so I mostly walked.

Then came the 2009 Tevis, which I crewed for my dad. Over the course of the weekend, I discovered that running on dirt didn’t hurt the way running on asphalt does, and I started doing the occasional run on the beach. It wasn’t until I started reading about barefoot running, though, that I realized why running on dirt was different. It wasn’t because it’s a softer surface – it’s because when I run on uneven ground, I don’t land on my heel. One pair of Vibram FiveFingers later, I was running more often, even on concrete, with much less discomfort. I even started getting used to the way things jiggle.

Last fall, NovySan and I started running every night – just a mile, and if I’m being honest, I have yet to run that whole mile. I’ve discovered it’s much easier for me to run fast than slow, but I can’t keep up the pace for a mile. So, I sprint, then I walk, then I sprint some more, and over time, I’m not only managing longer sprints, I’m also getting stronger, which helps me jog more comfortably as well.

I’ve had no knee pain in a long time – all those hours in the gym have definitely paid off in that respect. But the shins have had many, many things to say to me, all of them unpleasant. Google tells me that’s due to tight calf muscles, which I definitely have, so I’ve been stretching them and it’s been helping, but I obviously haven’t been stretching them enough, because Sunday night, half a block into my run, I felt as though someone had stabbed me in the calf with a hot knife.

It wasn’t a cramp. It was a strain, and thankfully a mild one. Five days later, it’s still sore, but I’ve been able to walk a bit and I went to KungYo Wednesday night without ill effect. Actually, the yoga helped a lot.

What makes me think I can call myself a runner now, though, despite not being very good at the actual running part, is that this is the first sports injury I’ve ever had, if I define a sports injury as an injury received as a result of physical activity, which makes it impossible or difficult to continue doing that activity until it heals. And my reaction to receiving said injury was an internal moan of, “But… but… This means I can’t run for at least a week! And what about KungYo? No, I’m going to KungYo, even if all I can do is sit on the sidelines and watch. I wonder how long I should wait before I get back on my bike, or the elliptical? Aw, man, I was really looking forward to BodyCombat, too!”

Come to think of it – maybe I’m not just a runner. Maybe I’m actually an athlete.

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