twilight zone

In a February USA Weekend interview, author Stephen King compared “Harry Potter” novelist J.K. Rowling and recent phenomenon Stephenie Meyer. “The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn,” he summed up. “She’s not very good.”

In case you are a man without a wife, sister, mother or teenage daughter, Meyer is the author of Twilight and its three follow-up young adult novels about a teenage girl named Bella and her vampire boyfriend Edward. Meyer’s books have been translated into 20 languages, sold 22 million copies just in 2008, and took spots 1-4 on last year’s best-seller list. That’s right, the Twilight series monopolized all four top spots last year.

The only good thing about this is it pushed The Shack to #6. Because King is right—the books aren’t very good. They include run-on sentences even the most junior editor should have caught, repetitive descriptions (we know Edward is hot because his eyes blaze, scorch, or smolder most of the time), and a whole lot of melodrama.

But just as people don’t visit Hard Rock Cafe for high-quality food, people aren’t reading Twilight for high-quality prose–they’re reading for the love story. Meyer has created every woman’s ideal man: mind-bogglingly handsome, funny, intelligent, articulate. He dotes on Bella’s every word and every mood swing. He’s got piles of money, a shiny Volvo, and nothing but time. (He is immortal.) Most of all, he’s Bella’s protector in a way no real man could be, able to run at lightning speed, read thoughts, and stop out of control cars with one hand.

When Charlotte asserted “Women just really want to be rescued” on an episode of Sex and the City, the other women at the table looked at her like she spit in their coffee. This desire to be cared for and protected is one of the few off-limits topics among modern women, because it’s something we’re not supposed to want. We can open that door, schlep that luggage, and fund that retirement account ourselves, thank you. But one or more of these books has been on the NYT bestseller list for years. We may not admit this desire, but we’re spending an awful lot of money to read about its fulfillment for someone else.

Perhaps it’s because God created us this way, and no amount of equal pay (which I firmly support) or power pantsuits (which I don’t) can negate it. The healthy expression of this inner wiring doesn’t include vampires and shouldn’t include victimization; it’s less “rescue” and more regard for our differences as women. For our part, it also includes recognition of men’s equally-unique role as provider and protector.

And, I think, the end of apologies for wanting that. We stopped waiting for the knight on a white horse a long time ago, but the so-pale-he’s-white Edward still entrances us. The books may not be good, but they point us, however melodramatically, to something that is.