I read the Twilight series. And I liked it. Judge if you must. Oh, and also...bite me.
I don't understand why people insist on judging so harshly when it comes to grown women enjoying a little young-adult, semi-smutty, leave a lot to the imagination literature from time to time. Is it Pulitzer worthy? No. But neither is this blog and here you are. BURN. Just kidding. I love you.
Before I started reading it, I just knew I would hate it. Vampires and werewolves and teen angst? No, thank you. But in this case I made an exception because I was part of a (extremely non-serious, more wine drinking, gossiping, and eating than book discussing) book club and that is what they picked. So I followed the rules and read it. I was hooked almost immediately. I finished the first of the series, and read the next 2 in a span of about 4 days. Then I had to wait like 6 months for the last one to come out, which I bought on day one and then forgot I had a family for the next 36 hours so I could finish it.
Don't worry. I'm not about to write a book review of the Twilight series. What I'm getting at is that in the middle of my vampire/werewolf obsession, I did a little background research on the author, Stephanie Meyer. And I learned that she came up with the idea for her series from a dream. A dream.
Charming is continually encouraging me to write a book. He wants me to write fiction so he's not in it (even though he probably wouldn't even read it so what does he care?). I cannot write fiction. I have zero imagination. When I'm conscious, that is.
I dream almost every night. And I remember probably 90% of them. Stephanie Meyer has a dream about beautiful, sparkly men laying in fields of flowers and turns it into a best seller. Check out this dream that I had LAST NIGHT. I am not nearly creative enough to make this up. Disturbed? Maybe. Creative? No. Buckle your seatbelts.
Charming and I are at a church revival. (We are already off to a very unrealistic start here. We go to church, but a very reverent, traditional one. No clapping, hand raising, or shouting of "Praise the Lord!" is involved. I don't know if I've been to a revival ever in my life, so my apologies if that is an inaccurate depiction. I'm going from what I've seen on TV.) So, here we are at this revival. It is in a smallish room with a big screen in the front. Showing on the screen is a COUNTRY MUSIC VIDEO. I think it was Brad Paisley. We are all singing along because the words are printed across the bottom. I remember this vividly because there were cuss words in the song, which I thought was odd because...well...we are at church.
Scene change. We are now sitting in a different room. The same people are there, so I can only assume it is a continuation of the revival. We are sitting in the back (finally something a little closer to reality). There are fold-out chairs and someone is talking in the front. Suddenly I look up and...are you ready?...I don't think you are...PETER RABBIT comes up to me. Peter friggin' Rabbit. And I don't mean a person in a rabbit costume. I mean an actual giant rabbit. That talks. He grabs my purse (or something) and starts running. So I start running after him.
Suddenly I'm on a golf cart. With Peter Rabbit. And I'm lecturing him on how stealing people's things when they are enjoying a church revival is wrong. We are driving the golf cart down this really long street in my home town (my real life home town), when I notice my 2 year old niece toddling across the street. It is a busy street (and nowhere near her house), so I grab her up and put her on the golf cart with us. I ask her why she is walking around by herself so far from home and her typical 2-year-old answer is, "Because".
She seems unfazed by the fact that a giant bunny is driving. Which is weird, given her reaction to Santa Claus.
I make Peter drive around until we find my sister, hand over her child, and inform her that I found her hanging out across town. She seems not the least bit concerned about this information, or the fact that a giant rodent-esqe creature has been driving me and her daughter around our small town in a golf cart. We are all oddly calm about the entire situation.
And...The End. It just cuts off. I don't remember anything else.
Take that, Stephanie Meyer.
I'll be waiting by the mailbox for my millions.