I love being in love with books.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love reading but the feeling of being in love with a book is amazing.
My last passionate fling with pop culture was the “Buffy” series, and that broke my heart in a zillion tiny pices back in 1997.
After 10 long and painful years, the hole in my heart was slowly closing, having been filled with various books, television shows and movies. My constant feeling of emptiness had almost completely subsided, but then I made the mistake of watching “Twilight” on one particularly boring Sunday afternoon with my Air Force roommate.
I anxiously waited for “New Moon,” and watched it again and again because it brought me 130 minutes of happiness and joy. I waited and waited (and waited) with anticipation for “Eclipse” to arrive. But the acting was so shiteous, the high was not what I expected.
Like an addict visiting the Methadone clinic, this was helping, but I wanted the good stuff.
I really loved the story line, so I decided to buy the books and, after purchasing the entire hardcover, first edition set for just $50 (thank you, Amazon!), I found myself entraced with every word Stephanie Meyer’s wrote.
About three things I was absolutely positive: First, Spike and Angel had nothing on Edward. Second, there was a part of me–and I didn’t know how dominant that part might be–that thirsted for every page. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with the series.
That is why I was able to finish “Twilight” in three nights. And now, I am aching to continue reading “New Moon.” It consumes my thoughts during the day. I have been able to shake the image of Kristen Stewart from my head (thankfully) and have since replaced myself in the role of Bella Swan.
What I have been lacking in the form of a real human relationship, I have found in the pages of these books.
But, just like my previous human relationships, this one is fleeting. I know the end is coming, though I am not sure exactly when.
Instead of days or weeks or months, this amazing and all-consuming part of my life will end after 2,346 pages.
Knowing that this relationship is finite, I struggle with how quickly to proceed.
I want to spend every waking moment devouring each page, and every moment I am asleep, I hope to dream of it. But, if I read through them at the rate that I am, I will be left sad and alone in just a few short weeks.
My heart tells me to just keep going– to come home every day and read from dinner until I cannot keep my eyes open. I need it, it tells me. How else can I feel so good? How else will I fill my dreams with such wonderful fantasy?
The worst part is, I truly have no idea what “Breaking Dawn” is about or what happens to Bella, Edward, Jacob and everyone else at the end. I have thought of many possiblities, and I have a pretty good idea of what will happen, but I keep hoping for a big surprise that leaves me in a daze for days. (If you are wondering what I’m wondering, I am pretty sure Bella ends up a vampire and Jacob dies in some beautiful act of love [and stupidity] while trying to save her. I secretly hope this does not happen and Bella ends up staying human, because I would be insanely jealous of the ‘forever love’ that she and Edward would share.)
My mind tells me I have totally lost it. It is just a book, well four. (Or five, if you count Meyer’s new novella, but that is a tricky mistress I am not sure I want to get into bed with.) Sure, I feel wonderful now and sure, it helps me fill the time during the week — but it will be over before I know it.
So, with the help of Goodreads (www.goodreads.com), I am already searching for a new relationship. I am do not know if I will be able to find a perfect replacement, but I hope to find something that will help fill the void after I close the cover of “Breaking Dawn” for the last time.
Is that cheating or just good planning?
I am not even halfway through the series (at this very moment, I am only on page 189 of “New Moon”) and I am already looking. That is just like if I had only been out on date #4 and was already planning who I would be taking out to dinner next month.
I am not giving these books a fair chance.
I could end up completely fullfilled after I finish, having found the true love of my biblio-life and be satisfied to never truly love again.
Or, I could just know that, while this was a great and wonderful love, there will be others who, though they may not fill the void compeltely, will allow me enough happiness to move on and flourish.
Someday, the series will fade into a fond memory that, when my grandchildren ask me about those dusty old black books with strange pictures on the cover, I will say only good things about the torrid, 2,000 page affair.
