I finished this saga, which, over four books, amounts to at least 2,300 pages, in roughly 10 days. Yes reading fiction is a passion of mine to say the least. But even for the most avid reader who does indeed have a life--and responsibilities--outside the page, this is an intense experience. Certain days I would put in ten hours of reading time, only breaking to go to the bathroom, to answer my phone (if it was important enough), to eat, which often I did while I was reading, god bless popcorn--easy clean up, and to exercise.
Many long runs I took along Lake Michigan while I processed this arresting story, often tear-filled runs. Not tears of sadness, not at all. Tears of joy. Tears of unexplained emotion, emotion that has no singular name due to its kaleidoscopic complexity. Tears of overwhelm. Of intrigue. Of disbelief that someone could dream something that seemed, to me--a passionately, yet private writer, nothing short of genius. I should have to write Stephenie Meyer a dedication in one of my own public works someday, should I become so blessed to publicize a piece that exudes a fraction of emotion that Meyer's series offered to be decoded by me.
So what's the big idea? The big idea is true love, and it cannot be overlooked, as I mentioned. The characters that begin in Twilight have such an intense love for each other. An inexplicable force, like electricity, that draws them in to the other, without understanding why. Such force that allows them to gaze into each other's eyes in pursuit of understanding the complicated workings of their counterpart's soul. It's beautiful. But beautiful is not a good way to describe how I processed this story. My experience was far stronger than anything I would describe as beautiful. Sublime. Maybe that better covers it.
There will be a time in my life, perhaps sooner than later, where I will take the opportunity to attempt to capture words that bring what I went through over this 10 days to life. That's not why I write today, however. I write today for two reasons. One: to tell you that true love is not a belief to be trifled with. True love is not a thing to be ignored, swept under the rug of 'that's just myth--the concept of a mate for a soul, that's merely'...dare I even utter the bastardized word: 'ideal.' Shudder.
Ideal. Ideal is a concept that you choose to paint for yourself. Much like integrity, or passion, or independence or love. You choose to illustrate for yourself what ideal might be to you. Meyer's flawed hero, Edward Cullen, who chooses to live only for his true love, might be simply ideal for person x or person y or the other person. But to me, or to you, someone like Edward might be something more like...a possibility. Maybe the only possibility. The only thing to believe in. Do we have such low opinions of our race that we settle for anything less than what is ideal? An answer that I also shudder to think of.
And the second reason I write in this moment: to pledge. I do pledge, throughout my writing career, however many lifetimes that will span, to live up to the standard that Stephenie Meyer has unknowingly, I am certain, laid down. I choose to believe in what she portrays: a love without doubt, caring and compassion without falter, the power of the imagination, believing in one's own abilities, and the list goes on. This pledge extends into the future. And since this page is public--technically, though I could count my viewers on my big toe, know that I do love you, by the way, for viewing--I vow to dedicate, in some part, whatever initial success I may have as writer of fiction to Stephenie Meyer. Because, even though I have been preparing for whatever may come to me my entire life, and possibly lifetimes before, many answers for how to proceed were not clear to me until I picked up this saga.
Pick it up yourself.
