Twilight: My confession

I’M not sure if I’m writing about this because I’m genuinely curious at the change in me. Or if it is a strange sort of confession.

A few days ago I had contempt for a series of books about a girl who falls in love with a vampire. Not my thing. During a weekend visit to London and with some words of encouragement from a close friend – and budding author – I picked up a copy of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight. No doubt you will be aware, to at least some degree, of Twilight-fever, especially as the second film - New Moon - is out in a couple of weeks.

My point, in fact, no, my concern, is the degree to which I have surrendered myself to these books. Having leafed through a few pages I was resigned to my fate. Since then, my mind’s considered little else, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.

I’m not worried about my obsession from a social point of view, I couldn’t care less about whether or not people find my behaviour odd. It’s that I don’t feel all that in control of it which is unnerving and yet dangerously pleasurable.

I hardly have to add that I’ve got the dvd and watched it four times (As I type, it plays in my room, the hypnotic tones of Edward washing over me). It’s become something of a necessity to accompany the book- perhaps because when my eyes get too tired to keep reading, I can absentmindedly point my face at my television.

Why’s is this happening? Not that I can – nor will I try – to sum up my personality in a few words here, but suffice it to say that I consider myself perfectly normal. Comparatively.

The fact I am normal is of consequence because this obsession with the books, with Edward, with Robert Pattinson, is happening to women everywhere. We’re all at it.
On the London tube, chatting with my equally obsessive friend, a girl behind us was reading Twilight. And there was a poster for New Moon behind her.
When I bought my own copies of the book on Oxford Street the girl at the till asked if I’d seen the movie to which I grinned, “Yes, Robert Pattinson is perfect in the part”. She answered saldy, “He’s not my Edward”. So there. It’s not just me.

I’ve tried to figure out what it could be. All I know is that, for me, there’s something about Edward’s power and protection of Bella, the damzel in distress thing. I’ve got a similar thing for the Lois Lane and Clark Kent dynamic. Not that I’m one for the feckless female and while we’re on that, Paris Hilton has a lot to answer for. In novels, in fantasy, it somehow works. Perhaps, as long as I can compartmentalise it, I’ll be fine.

All this said, my worry at the change in my behaviour is soon forgotten when I get that flutter in my stomach at Edward Cullen’s voice. So I think for the moment, I’m happy to be having my own little Twilight saga. And why shouldn’t I be doing something that makes me blissfully happy; most of us spend so much time doing things that make us miserable.

I’ll rejoin the real world eventually.