Full disclosure: I am over thirty and have read all of the Twilight books. And have seen all three movies, all on opening night. You might even say that I’m a Twihard.
Do I like the Twilight franchise? Sort of. I mean, I like them despite the quality of the writing, the plotting, the troublesome messages it sends to young women about creepy assholes, nonconsensual kissing, a man as guardian of a horny teenager’s virginity, and, oh, a guy oiling your window so it won’t squeak when he creeps in to watch you sleep at night. I mean, I like the books about as much as I can like a book involving a crazy half-vampire fetus that has to be chewed out of her mother’s uterus by the vampire babydaddy’s sharp vampire teeth (because in the vampire world of rock-paper-scissors, only vampire teeth cuts vampire amniotic sac and NO I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP).
Wow, maybe I actually hate the series.
Wait. I remember when I first read the first book, recommended by a friend who has since disavowed all association with the Twimpire Twinopoly Twilight franchise. It was not the Twiglomerate phenomenon then (this is akin to my telling you I listened to insert indie band name here when they were still playing only the handicapped bathroom stalls of independent coffeehouses), so I went in with no expectations. I didn’t even know there were vampires, for chrissake. And I was drawn in. Why does this mysterious hot guy hate the new girl so much? Why are the hot kids so pale and sparkly? HOW THE FUCK DID HE JUST STOP THAT VAN FROM CRUSHING THE NEW GIRL? What? It turns out he totally ZOMG loves her? And his HATRED was to mask his ZOMG TRUE LOVE?
SOLD!
No, really. I loved it. There was longing, and the usual awkward teenager stuff, unrequited love that turns out to be requited (hooray!), and, you know, some plot at the end. By the time the last book came out, I was ready to punch the cover because I could not punch imaginary characters (side note: fist-rock does not beat book-paper. Ouch). But still, I was kind of glad I’d read them.
But then came the clones, like an army of zombies (zombies are hot right now too, but not in a “I wanna make out with the living dead” way). Fallen angels are the new vampires. We’ve got Becca Fitzpatrick’s inane Hush, Hush trilogy, Lauren Kate’s even more insipid Fallen trilogy, and loads more “paranormal romances.” I mean, there are enough books out there fitting this mold that there IS a “paranormal romance” genre. It’s a fucking GENRE!
I wouldn’t mind if the books didn’t suck, but they do. These books have the clueless, self-absorbed narrator finding out that the dark, broody boy at school is some sort of paranormal being. The rest of the book is trying to figure out if the paranormal hottie likes the narrator or not. There is little to no plot outside of that, unless the book will be a trilogy, in which case the last two chapters will have a zillion new plot elements and conspiracies and unanswered questions so you will buy the next book.
I will say this about Twilight: the book ended in a place where most things made sense, aside from the inexplicable fashion choice of a sleeveless, button-down oxford shirt. But the rest of the plot? Sure. Made sense, tied up in a good place. There was a second book because people liked the first one so much. But the clones water down their plot for the sole purpose of making it a series. It’s fine to have a multi-book story, but each book should be able to stand on its own. I shouldn’t feel like the author is just killing time until she reaches a certain word count so she can start the next book after the requisite ZOMG cliffhanger ending. Don’t even get me started on the love triangles more roughly inserted than the speculum at my last pap smear.
Not all young adult books with a paranormal element are horrible—Kiersten White’s Paranormalcy is adorable, with a fun, likable narrator. And the object of her paranormal affection is not an abusive asshole. The story also has a plot! Maggie Stiefvater’s Wolves of Mercy Falls books are gorgeously written, lyrical, and simply fine literature. I’m also a fan of her two books on faeries (which may be the new fallen angel, which is the new vampire, so faeries are the new-new vampire). So paranormal does not have to equal sucktastic.
I want to see some twists in the paranormal romance genre. It’s always girl meets asshole, asshole is paranormal entity, girl makes stupid decisions, asshole is asshole, girl stalks asshole while not noticing asshole is actually stalking girl, girl and asshole are in love FOREVER for no reason at all, two seconds of kissing, disaster!, miscommunication!, love triangle!, almost resolution but then “Three’s Company”-like moment of misunderstanding!, girl in danger, asshole saves the day, but oh no CLIFFHANGER, two more books of nonsense.
Let’s mix it up a little. How about a werewolf with male pattern baldness, trying to catch the eye of the head cheerleader? Or a faerie who falls in love with an underage panda (they’re endangered)?
Or maybe a Sasquatch who wants to be admitted to the American Ballet Theater but doesn’t have enough natural flexibility and also can’t find shoes that fit?
The possibilities are endless! So stop limiting yourself, young adult authors, lest I have to get all Samuel L. Jackson on your ass.