books – for art’s sake

a long overdue review

I read the Twilight series 20 years too late. Here is my review of Breaking Dawn.

Ok listen. I know that I said one of my goals this year was to write more. And I was doing a really great job of that when I was essentially unemployed. And then I got a job, a wonderful job at the library that I love, a fantastic job that keeps me so so busy.

In this position, I am taking a loootttt of classes on how to work in a library and how to do all the library things. One of those things is Readers Advisory, or the process of helping people find books to read. This class that I’m taking on RA suggests that just talking about books with people makes you a better advisor, and they recommend writing reviews for books as one of the ways to practice that.

Now I have a Goodreads account and a StoryGraph account (which I prefer), so I’m no stranger to writing reviews. But my reviews aren’t really… reviews, I guess. Just a couple of thoughts I have, a couple sentences, maybe a paragraph at most. Of course, I generally have far more thoughts than those. But I think that, for some reason, my thoughts and opinions might somehow be wrong, which prevents me from talking much more about the books I read. Which, in turn, gives me less practice really discussing the books and all the elements that I might pick up on to point other readers towards. At the end of the day, it’s all opinions, and because I felt a book was too fast-paced or the characterization was flat doesn’t mean that’s wrong, it just means that’s my opinion.

So, I want to write more, and I want to write about books more. I want to improve my skills when it comes to knowing what draws readers in and what turns readers off. And I guess I’m starting this with a pretty bad book.

I recently decided that my decades long aversion to the Twilight series was maybe a little dramatized, and that I should maybe give it a chance now that it’s been about 20 years since the books and movies came out. As a staunch (and now former) H*rry P*tter fan (and fuck JK Rowling), I stood firm on my soapbox in the belief that Twilight was terrible and awful and a cheap ripoff of my favorite wizarding boy series and also that Kirsten Stewart and Robert Pattinson were talentless losers. (I’m so sorry, KStew and RPatz, you weren’t bad actors, it was just bad writing. Or maybe KStew’s heart just wasn’t in the role of a straight, boring girl now that she’s come out as cool and queer and interesting.)

Anyway. I started with the movies, because it was winter and I was working like three nights a week and had nothing to do. And after thoroughly enjoying how corny and early-2000s-nostalgic the movies were, I decided to give the books a try.

I’ve read the first three. This is just my review of the final book in the series, Breaking Dawn. My previous reviews can be summed up as “God I can’t stand Jacob” and “Needs more Alice”.

That being said…commence the review.

Breaking Dawn could and should have been two separate books, or at least one book without all the drawn out plotlines intended to build suspense but just left me waiting for something to happen. I think a lot of people felt this book was decently paced, and I agree to the extent that it was full of things happening, but it just felt impossibly long and even though it kept me reading, I was just waiting and waiting and waiting for the climax and it just kept getting prolonged.

And honestly! If we’re looking for things to cut, I could have done without Jacob’s entire section! Actually, I think this book would have been okay if it weren’t for Jacob’s POV in the middle there. In fact, why don’t we just get rid of Jacob entirely? I seriously can’t stand this guy and his weird manipulation tactics, and don’t even get me started on the whole imprinting thing. I was made to believe for MANY years that it wasn’t “that weird or anything” but nah this is straight up grooming. Get AWAY from her!!!!

And on the topic of Jacob’s POV, maybe it was because I listened to the audiobook, but I could absolutely not decipher when the pack was in their human form or in their wolf form. I just found myself incredibly confused trying to picture what was happening at all times during this part of the book. Seth Clearwater, you can stay though. I like you.

As for the rest of the book, all I can really say is that it was severely lacking Alice Cullen. Alice Cullen, my beloved. Maybe I would have liked this book more if we got Alice’s perspective instead of Jacob’s. Sure, sure, then the whole surprise would have been ruined of why Alice left and we, the readers, wouldn’t be in the dark the same as the rest of the Cullens, but whateverrrrrr. Whatever!!!

Vampire Bella was an improvement for sure and I liked the exploration of her powers, though. I know a lot of people can’t stand the main three characters, but I can put up with Bella being boring and dumb because I love supporting women’s wrongs, and Edward, while also giving me weird groomer vibes, is more forgivable because at least he’s perpetually 17. I also appreciate that he’s the voice of reason, cuz this trio needs it. But can we talk about the fact that he’s like… sure Jacob, if it makes my wife happy, she can have your babies. Bro WHAT! I mean like I’m all for a throuple but Edward ur crazyyyy.

And on the topic of babies, listen. I know this horse is 20 years past dead, so if there’s anything left to beat, it’s bones at this point. But Renesmee, as a name, is despicable. It’s almost as bad as, gag, EJ. And god bless me for thinking at first that EJ was short for Edward Junior. No, sweet Nicole, it is so, so much worse than that. Edward Jacob is absolutely, utterly, completely batshit insane. Sure, let’s name the baby after my husband and my “friend” who’s obsessively in love with me and manipulates me into staying friends because we’re all toxic and messy and have no boundaries. Let’s continue to make this as insane as possible.

This book was crazy. This book was not good. Now, does this mean I’ll never read it again? Perhaps not. I, surprisingly, loved this series, even though it was mostly awful. The first book was remarkably enjoyable, and I really liked Eclipse as well. New Moon I could have done without (#1 Jacob Hater), and at least the Breaking Dawn movies were good. But, somewhat regrettably, I am now a Twilight fan. A Twi-hard one might say. I love this series and I can’t wait to watch it all again on my first cold November night. Re-reading the books, though, might be a bit more few and far between.

the library, part two

this is the conclusion to the library, part one. read that one first if you’d like.

It’s 2022, one year post-graduation. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve moved out, and I live right next door to a library. It’s not my library though. It’s a college library, and I don’t go to college anymore, so I can’t go to the library. Plus I’m pretty sure I owe a million dollars in late fees. And I lost my library card and beause of my million dollars in late fees they’ll never let me get another library card, not unless I pay the million dollars in late fees first. I come up with every excuse I can to not go to the library. I am afraid, broke, and ashamed. I weep and moan to my Twitter followers about my library woes.

Someone I follow on Twitter works at the library. She tells me that actually, they don’t do late fees anymore, and that any previous late fees have been absolved. I get into my car and drive to my library. My first library. I apply for a library card. I pick the one with the same design I had on it as a kid. I check out three graphic novels. I haven’t read a book for fun in a long time. I return to my car and cry.

I move, and move again. I live close to my old neighborhood now, just a few minutes away from my second library. I get a new job. It is stable, but sad. I am bored. I listen to audiobooks while I get my work done. I really like audiobooks. I like to multitask. I start keeping track of my books using apps. I’m reading a lot, and I have opinions. I start rating and reviewing my books. I start reading challenges. I still mostly read audiobooks. It feels like cheating. Everyone tells me it’s not.

When I feel really bad at work, I take my hour lunch break and visit the nearest library. I sit in the graphic novel section and look at all the books. I walk through the fiction shelves and stare at all the books I will never have enough time to read. I watch the patrons do puzzles, surf the web, read to their kids. I visit the children’s section. I stare at all the books I once read and cry.

I remember the Dewey Decimal System, faintly. I start looking at art books again. I teach myself how to crochet (again). I consider picking up knitting. I don’t. I check out a lot of crochet books, and I use the scanner at work to copy pages because I know I will be working on these granny squares for much longer than two weeks.

The library is so much better than I remember it. It feels like home. There are events, book clubs, reading challenges. There is a seed library, a podcast, a never-ending carousel of recommendations. One day, I get really into my family genealogy. The library offers free access to their genealogical database. The library has a catalog of old menus from local restaurants. I lose my mind at how cheap a ribeye dinner used to be in the 50s.

My job is less than ideal. I start applying for other positions. And then I remember the library. I submit application after application. I apply for jobs I am overqualified for, jobs I am underqualified for, volunteer positions. The status of my applications frequently read “referred to hiring department”, but nothing ever comes.

I quit my job. I return to school. I go back to waiting tables. I try things thinking I will like them. I like them, a little. But not enough. I apply to the library again. Weeks go by with nothing. Then, a glimmer of hope: a request to take the library exam.

I take the exam. I expect it to be me and maybe four other people, tops. It is a conference room full of applicants. I think, “this must be a general exam for anyone who applies for a city position.” It is not. My heart sinks at the prospect of employment among this huge pool of applicants. But then I remind myself they are building a new library, and that new library needs staff. Plus, I’m smart. I take the exam.

I miss five of fifty questions. I score 10th out of the 193 people who took the exam. This does not guarantee my employment. I feel better, but still not great. Then, a few weeks later, I am offered an interview.

Then, I am offered two more interviews at other places. I go to the first one. I accidentally reveal my hand too much and talk about the library job. They do not offer me the position. Then, I interview at the library. I interview Tuesday morning. They have packed the week full of interviews. I tried to change my interview time and every slot had already been filled until the end of the week. They are only filling seven positions. I do not let myself believe I won’t get the job.

A week later, I interview at my last spot. It’s not what I expect, but it’s secure. I leave my phone ringer on, just in case the library calls. They don’t. Another day goes by, then another. No call. No email. No updated application status. My hope slowly fades. I am offered the job at the last position. I think I will probably take it. I text my parents.

“Is it what you really want?” No, but it’s a job. “What about the library?” I haven’t heard back from them. “The city is extremely slow about hiring,” says my father, a city employee. “Reach out to the library and see.”

So I do. I compose an email. I double, triple, quadruple check it. I sleep on it. I double check it again. Then, I close my eyes and hit send. I roll over in bed and try to turn my brain off for a bit.

Forty minutes later, as I am typing something to a friend about how I have a gut feeling that I will someday die of cancer, I get a phone call. My hands go cold with sweat. I answer it.

The library offers me a job. The library offers me a job at my library. I am crying silently on the phone as the man explains the hiring process. I am beyond excited. We hang up, and I burst into full-on sobs. Suddenly, I am terrified.

I call my partner eleven times to try and wake him up. He’s sick and it is still early for him, but eventually he picks up. I email the other job, declining their offer. I text my therapist. I work on a Wise Mind. Everything boils down to shame. It always does.

The library has meant everything to me. The library taught me to love learning, to love my community. The library is the whole reason I love 90% of the things that I love. It’s the reason I love drawing, cooking, art, and crafts, not to mention, duh, reading. The library is the backbone of the community that I love so deeply, the community that I’ve thought about leaving multiple times but for some reason just can’t. The library is the most use I will get out of my degree short of working in a museum. In a broader sense, the library is a needed balm against anti-intellectualism, the frontline force against fascism. In a world where more and more people are being excluded, shamed, exiled, and attacked for being who they are or for simply existing in a culture that looks down on them, the library is a safe haven. The library is for everyone. All of that means something to me. All of that is why I said yes.

And despite all that, I am sick with fear and shame at my acceptance into a community I have revered for years at a respectable distance, safe from harm. I am scared that I won’t love it. I am scared that it will be too hard. I am scared that it will all be taken away. I am scared while writing this that even talking about this so shortly after my acceptance will jinx me and this job and it will all crumble around me miserably and dramatically and that everyone will laugh at me when I make my miserable and dramatic follow-up post explaining the situation. Jesus Christ.

But the thing is, the library had accepted me even before they offered me the job. They accepted me as a young reader, excited to learn about the world. They accepted me as a weird, awkward preteen learning about their body for the first time, and as a closeted queer teen who didn’t quite have the words to describe themself yet, but liked to read books about queer people under the guise of being an “ally”. They even accepted me despite my (probably) thousands of dollars in late fees, and despite the fact that I like audiobooks and graphic novels, unlike real readers who read real books without pictures.

My therapist tells me it’s very common for people who finally get what they want to immediately be afraid that they’ll lose it. I’m worried that I’ve made the wrong choice. I remind myself that there is no right or wrong. But if there was, why would pursuing something like this be wrong? I love the library. I take a deep breath. I take a few deep breaths.

I stop crying.

I start writing.

the library, part one

This morning, I was offered a job at the library, and I haven’t stopped crying since.

There’s a multitude of reasons why: because I desperately needed a job that wasn’t at a restaurant, because I was offered another, better paying position elsewhere, because it means that so much is going to change in the coming weeks and I do not handle change well.

But mostly, I’ve been crying because … it’s the library.

My earliest, softest memories happen there. I remember exactly what my first library card looked like. How excited I was to get to see my name on the back, written in my mother’s beautiful, rounded handwriting, her keepsake from growing up in the 80s. I remember excitedly sliding my books in the drop off box and making a beeline for the children’s section, but only being allowed to check out a few books so we don’t lose them. That’s okay, we’ll be back next week anyway.

When I start kindergarten, I can already read. (Thanks, Mom and Dad!) In fact, I can read at a 3rd grade level. I like the reading corner during Specials the most. It has a bean bag chair. But none of my friends go to the reading corner, so I feel lonely. I ask to change my Specials to the Make-Believe corner so I can play with my friends. I can read at home.

In the first grade, we moved, which meant the library I used to go to was too far away. It’s okay, school has a library too. I love library class. I’m an Accelerated Reader. I love taking tests on what I’ve read. I love that my teachers let me check out books way beyond my reading level. I can read at a 5th grade level now. I want to read the Guinness Book of World Records. The librarian doesn’t have any of the new ones, just the old ones. They’re not as exciting, but I look at them anyway. My mom offers me the Harry Potter series. I look at the pictures, then give it back to her. Even though I can read well past my grade level, I still like books with pictures.

I visit our new library. It’s not as nice as the old one, but there’s still books, so I don’t care. I read everything. I realize there’s more to the library than just fiction books. I check out cookbooks. I check out craft books. I check out how-to-draw books. I try so many things, and give up so many times.

But I keep reading. I have my library card number memorized so I don’t even have to pull it out of my mom’s purse when I eventually learn how to place holds online. I beg my parents to drive me to the library so I can pick up my holds. I complete every Summer Reading Program weeks before they end. I eat a lot of personal pizzas.

I start drifting out of the children’s area into … the Young Adult section. I read books about teenagers falling in love, making out, talking about s-e-x. I am raised Catholic. I can’t believe these kind of books are at the library. I keep reading them. My parents have no idea. It feels like a sin, but I got these books at the library, so how bad can it be?

I learn about banned books. I’ve read a few for school. In the sixth grade, some parents were concerned that we had to read The Giver. My mom told me not to finish it until she had read it too. After she did, she said it was okay if I wanted to finish it. I already had. Besides, I was reading The Hunger Games, and that was way worse. Tumblr tells me about a banned book called Looking For Alaska. It’s not at my school library, so I place a hold on it at the public library.

I realize that right next to the YA section is the graphic novel/manga section. Books with pictures? That aren’t for babies? Surely you jest. I start reading graphic novels, manga, cartoon compilations. I want to be a cartoonist. I trace the pictures in these books at home. I start writing comic strips about things that happen in my life.

I read Alison Bechdel’s Dykes to Watch Out For because, budding young feminist I am, I heard about something called “the Bechdel Test” on Tumblr. I am too young, but I like the drawings and the characters. Girls kissing girls? That’s actually a real thing? Also, what is a dyke? None of my favorite movies pass the Bechdel test. I am disappointed in myself.

In high school, I become overwhelmed by everything. But I keep reading. I finish every book assigned to me, even if I hate them. I read more graphic novels in my free time because I want to be an illustrator now. I check out CDs from the library and burn them onto my laptop so I can make mixtapes for my friends. I borrow the Scott Pilgrim vs The World soundtrack, and listen to Anthems for a Seventeen Year Old Girl on repeat and think about killing myself. I am admitted into partial hospitalization for two weeks. I return the CD to the library on my way home. I don’t go back to the library for a long time.

In college, the campus library is my refuge. I’m scared to go to the public library because I haven’t been in ages and I’m worried I have thousands of dollars in overdue fees. But the campus library isn’t a part of that. I explore every one of its three floors. I find the best corners to study in, the best spots to people watch, the worst salads I’ve ever eaten in my life in the library cafe. I buy coffees with spare change. I reserve private study rooms to memorize paintings, artists, years, locations. I write so, so many papers. The library is the only place I am motivated to get work done.

COVID hits. I can’t go to the library anymore. I can’t buy $2 black coffees while I work on my thesis anymore. I can’t sit in a booth and watch everyone pretend to study while I also pretend to study. I cry. But I finish. I finish my thesis. I finish my Bachelor’s. I graduate in May 2021. I walk across the stage, pull down my mask for a picture. Later that night, I drive home and cry. I feel like a fraud.

I got just about finished with this post and realized it was overwhelmingly long. So, I have split it into two. check out the library, part two for the thrilling conclusion to my daytime drama.