My Curiosity Kills
I’m curious by nature. It’s a gift. And a curse. When I see everybody making a big fuss over something (a book, a movie, a song, etc.) I say ‘no way; I don’t care about it.’ But eventually I cave and just have to know what the big deal is. That’s how it started with Twilight. I rolled my eyes at the hubbub over the first two movies. “Stupid teenage girls and their dumb romance story,” I said. Then the third movie came out and the chaos was out of control. That did it. I just had to know what was so friggin’ special about that stupid movie.
So I watched it.
Halfway through the first movie of the series, I was hooked. I loved it, and I’m not ashamed to say it. A lot of authors slam the Twilight series, but I think they do it because they’re jealous. It’s brilliant. Teenage girl, two hot guys in love with her, both of whom have super awesome secrets. What’s not to love about it? It has vampires and werewolves and gorgeous people. Don’t get me wrong, I loathe the twitchy and awkward Kristen Stewart and think that after the third movie, it went off the rails, but the story is fantastic. And yes, I read every one of the books. This is what happens when I give in to my curiosity. Fortunately, I don’t do it often.
Now, some time passes and along comes 50 Shades of Grey. As usual, I rolled my eyes and waited for the cloud of horny housewives to pass me by. But it didn’t end. It just got bigger and bigger until finally, I caved. I began the first book in the trilogy with nothing more than curiosity. I had no expectations whatsoever.
Let me just say that I think it’s great for any author — no matter how long they’ve been in the game (Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight was her first book and a smash hit) or what genre they’re writing — to hit it big. I think it’s wonderful that they can make the kind of money these two women have made off their books.
That being said, I believe this should’ve been called 50 Shades of Crap.
I fought my way through the first few chapters, hoping that it would get better, or at least get good enough to allow me to overlook the terrible writing. Unable to take it any more, I stopped reading and started skimming, flipping through the next few chapters to see if at least the sex scenes were as good as everyone was making them out to be. After several chapters of that, I gave up. I found nothing likable, nothing redeemable or interesting about the book. It was written horribly, and I just can’t believe that so many people love it so much.
And now they’re making a movie of it. Blows. My mind. But still, I’m happy for E.L. James. She’s made a lot of money off those books, and made a name for herself. Good for her.
I suppose the moral of the story is: my curiosity will lead to disappointment half the time and enjoyment the other half.