As soon as you get your copy, you’ll dive in and take the opening quiz, which is based on how much time and money you want to spend, and whether or not you are self-publishing or working with a traditional publisher.
Then you’ll plummet straight into one of our four non-techie, done-for-you, can’t-possibly-miss marketing plans.
Of course, we also tell you exactly how WE did it, and we have additional chapters for all you smartypantsers and those of you who want to roll your own plan.
Sound like a giant hell-yeah taco with face-melting fabulous sauce? Well, it comes with a side of smokin’ hot FREE, between August 1 and August 5, so you better click through and grab you some digital “Yeah, Baby!” before they’re all gone forever.
Here’s what it DOESN’T have…
We didn’t write our book to tell you how to make a million, overnight, while you sleep. Market like a Mofo may be the ONLY marketing book you’ll ever read that does not promise you riches, or regurgitate rules about setting goals, monitoring, measuring, and refining your marketing tactics…
In fact, we started out writing it that way, but then we held our fingers on the backspace key until that entire chapter was relegated to cyber-purgatory. Sonja and I didn’t pen the Badass Writing series to make a giant pile of doubloons (although we love doubloons, and wish we had some doubloons, and saying doubloooooons is fun). We wrote it because a) we were drinking at the time, b) it was a blast, and c) it feels great to stop taking everything so damned seriously. All that hyper-serious shit impedes forward motion, especially when you’re first getting going on this adventure. The point is to write, dammit, ship it, then let people know about it.
If you go on to become one of those Kindle Millionaires, drinks are on you, Big Daddy.
How to be a real hero
And hey, if you read it and get something good out of it, would you please give us a review on Amazon? It’s not nearly as fun as a wine slushy, but it puts virtual jet fuel in our writing biplane and pays for new whips. Every badass writer needs a whip. And they wear out so quickly. Snif. So please write us a review, and if you’re feeling extra givey-helpy, go through and “thumbs up” the other great reviews you see and like.
Once we get 25 reviews on Marketing Mofo, we will send out an email inviting you to tell us your toughest book writing, publishing, or marketing hurdle that you just don’t seem to be able to clear.
We’ll also add you to our Private Badass Writing Whip Party Facebook Group.
Then, on a specific date (we’ll announce it via our email list, so go sign up at BadassWriting.com), we will post the problems and our answers/ideas for how you can whip that problem into shape. And of course, all of you can introduce yourselves and help each other out with cheering and more advice on how to navigate past the poison dart walls to nab the golden writing-publishing-marketing statue.
If you can’t be there on that specific date, you can always take a look at the thread later and keep interacting with the others from the Badass Writing community.
If your inner demons have ever said to you, “Hey loser, you’re never gonna get your book written, much less published,” my partner-in-writing-badassery Sonja Foust and I are gonna give you some nice sharp rocks to throw in those bastards’ faces.
Listen, you already know that publishing — even if you go the self-published online route, which is definitely the fastest — isn’t a get rich quick scheme, no matter what that dude on the infomercial or pop-up-infested sales page promised you.
It’s hard work, and it takes time.
In fact, publishing is like tantric sex, in which we are (of course) both experts. Actually, it’s like über-tantric sex, if you’ll allow us to mix the Germans with the Hindus, because rather than a six-hour naked marathon session, it’s more like a six-month to two-year naked (soul) marathon.
Tell your inner demons to put that in their pipes and smoke it. They’ll probably quite like it, and switch sides immediately. That, at least, is worth the effort of downloading, wouldn’t you agree?
This publishing-as-über-tantric-soul-sex marathon is mostly fun and you do get several little orgasms plus a big, juicy one at the end. Which is really just the beginning, because after tantric publishing comes tantric marketing (<– our next book), which is actually more like an orgy (in which we are also both experts), because you want lots of excited people involved to help you “get it off.” Hah.
And you thought this book was gonna be dull.
If you haven’t immediately deleted us from your hard drive, unfriended us both on Facebook, and written your congressman an angry letter in which you foam at the mouth and denounce us as frauds (we are not experts at that), we got more good stuff…coming.
And we always practice safe publishing, y’all. And you’re gonna like it. Especially if you’re into a little BDSM.
No dirty limericks or whiskey, buuuuut…
Not only are you gonna discover what you need to know BEFORE you publish, you’ll also get the full story on traditional and online publishing (with timelines and worksheets for all), AND you’ll get to see exactly how the two of us did it, too.
You’ll find out:
The advantages and disadvantages to traditional (with the “Big Six” or a small press) and online (on your own or for a client) publishing
What each part will cost you, and how long it will take
Which parts of the process are easiest to outsource
How to navigate the secret hell of formatting for online publishing platforms
No dirty limericks are included this time (no whiskey, either), but if we could give you all a present it would definitely be a “Be nice or I’ll mock you in my novel” tee-shirt. And if you want MORE really-it’s-chocolate-flavored unicorn pellets, see the next bit…
Collect ’em all!
Just in case you missed it earlier, the first book in the Badass Writing Series, Bagels, Dirty Limericks, and Martinis: The Badass Guide to Writing Your First Book, will help you get your ideas out of your head and down on paper, tell you the ironclad rules of writing (and why most of them are crap), take you step by step through writing your first outline in 5 minutes (or less), and reveal the secrets to plotting, editing, and FINISHING your book.
The second book, Whiskey-Pissing Unicorns: How to Lose or Quit Your Job and Become a Badass Writer includes three critical questions (and one sneaky-ass trick) you should consider when deciding whether you really wanna be an ink-slave, explains precisely where badass writers find paying jobs (not counting Wal-Mart, hah), and tells you what does and doesn’t keep the baby in Huggies.
And our fourth book has a working title of Marketing Mofo: How to Sell Moar Copies of Your Badass Book. (We may or may not spell the title in lolcat.) And if we get a good electrical storm in the next few weeks, we’ll be able to hook that one up in the laboratory and jolt it to life by July. See below for how to find out when the monster is free and rampaging through the digital streets…
Get “Write, Dammit” for Free, too!
If you want to get our free book, 25 Reasons to Write, Dammit,go sign up over at Badass Writing. You might want to get it purely for the handy-dandy list of penis-inspired names for the characters in your books. Of course you might want to avoid it entirely for that reason, too. Maybe wear gloves for that download.
Any rate, you won’t get any kind of regular newsletter-y thing (too much work) when you sign up, but we’ll def let you know whenever one of our new books is coming out for freesies.
My compadre in badassery Sonja made me take out most of the all-caps words for this new little book of ours, but it’s still undeniably loud, rude, and strewn with inappropriate and deliciously fun tips, tricks, anecdotes, and EVEN some powerful real-life pointers. If you’re thinking of becoming a writer, and you’re not scared of having a little fun along the way, you must read this book!
It’s FREE (just for a day or two, then $2.99, woah!)
And as of the time of this posting, it’s free! That won’t last, so click over and gobble up some yummy chocolate-and-whiskey-flavored pixels now!
And it also includes…
You’ll hear her tearful tale of woe and wonder, and I’ll tell a bit of my own story, which includes spreadsheets, sharks, and unicorns. Sadly, we forgot to include more cowbell, but wait! You’ll receive not one but two, two check sheets for capturing your own whiskey-pissing dream unicorn AND (spoiler!) yet another limerick. Maybe even two.
I promise not to include any more limericks in future books. Unless you just want more. Let me know. I’ll pander to anyone.
We hope you’ll leave us a review!
And we both know it’s a monstrous pain in the patootie, but if you would be willing to write us a review on Amazon, we promise to send you a virtual karmic whiskey-scented massage and some heavy (but entirely pleasant) vibrations of intense and slightly drunken happiness.
Like this… (You people ROCK our world)
Just finished this ebook and was actually guffawing into my morning tea and toast. (And it’s research AND I still have time to write this morning.) As a writer (note how I said that, ladies)…working on my first textbook, I found this book hilariously on point with the process, not to mention downright practical. But not just for writers! If you have ANY project or goal that you wish to reflect your core beliefs on how to get more out of your dreams, this book is worth checking out. Peppered, ok–littered– with irreverent slang and saucy language, you’ll imagine yourself at a girl’s night out with free-flowing wine as you read this. (At least that’s how my book club runs, doesn’t yours?) Or maybe you’ll just feel that one of these girls is actually your best high school girlfriend and MAN, are you glad she’s still in your life. READ!
We hope to release Book Three, on Publishing, in the Badass series next month, and even before then, we’ll have a special little TREAT that you’ll only be able to get by hopping over to our website at BadassWriting.com (hint: it’s a free book, and you LOVE free books) and getting on our email list.
I PROMISE YOU we aren’t sending many emails over there (too much work, and we’re basically lazy-asses); just letting you know when we publish something new. The TREAT will be available in the next week or so, but you gotta be on the list to get it!
And even MOAR…
We have books on marketing your book, editing, and blogging coming later this year! Why? Because we like you. If you work it juuuuuust right, you can replace the M-I-C with B-A-D… K-E-Y with A-S-S… Then you have to kind of squish in W-R-I-T-I-N-G. But it works. We made it work, anyway. Of course, we were drinking. (But only one of us filmed ourselves drinking, heh.)
Are you ready for the first non-boxing post I’ve written in a while? I LOVE having a blog where I can do any damn thing I want to, y’all. And the bad-a-licious news is that the first book with my evil twin Sonja Foust, “Bagels, Dirty Limericks, and Martinis: The Badass Guide to Writing Your First Book” is LIVE and available on Amazon. I almost said it’s “finally” live, but the little bastard was so fast and easy to write (we did it in less than 40 hours of time each, start to finish) that “finally” doesn’t really apply.
Three in a row, you win the giant plush martini!
Now that I’ve written that subhead, I’m wondering just how flexible Cafe Press might be… But what I was going to say is that Sonja and I started writing the first Badass Guide in January on a whim, and damned if it didn’t just come right together like a group of hungry monkeys over a pile of raisins. It happened so fast we had trouble slowing down, and two more books are also finished and in the editing stages. You can take a look at those two over at the site we whipped together called Badass Writing.
While you’re over there, sign up and we’ll ping you when the next ones come out (expected publication dates of April and May, 2013). We’ll let you know when they are FREE FREE FREE, (more…)
I just happened to stumble across this image on Flickr (captured by Brandonschauer, who is in no way being held responsible here on The Glowing Edge for this freaky Warhol-kissing-Jean-Michael-Baptiste piece) and thought that there was no way in hell that I could work out on heavy bags with a pasty face of Jesus drawn all over them.
It’s not so much that it’s Jesus — you know, GOD — it’s more that it’s just such a stupid image of Jesus, he’s all pansy-looking. Not that I know what he looked like IRL, but please. I hate these passive, meek little storybook pictures. When I think of Jesus I think of someone who can kick my ass then take me out for a beer after. Sorry if that doesn’t work for you, but there it is.
Yes, I understand that it’s art, and Andy Worhol (plus Jean Michael Baptiste) art at that. But no.
Just.
No.
And no, you may not send me links to the Jesus-as-boxer painting. I’ve seen it, and I can’t envision this whiteboy Jesus with a back-lit 80s hair-metal hairdo that …precious. OMG, if you take my meaning.
(Now you’re sorry you clicked through to the Jesus-as-boxer link, aren’t you? Aren’t you glad I didn’t stick that one at the top of this post? Count your blessings, people.)
The only thing better than getting mail art is getting Fibonnacci mail art.
Well, I’ll allow that quantum mail art of some variety would be wicked cool too: imagine the possiblities for up, down, charm, and strange quark postcards. Or a Heisenberg card: you’d never know for certain both when it had been sent and when it arrived. But you could know one of those things.
Sorry, I’ll stop with the geek jokes now. I was talking about my birthday.
Because I had one last fall, and a month or so later my dear artist/author/sometime-zombie friend sent me this postcard with a Fibonacci series on it. She cuts this stuff out of extra copies of one of the books she’s published and then glues, sews, draws, and sends off dozens of these art-o-licious cards to people around the world, who also send her mail art back. She puts it all on her mail art blog and if you love getting mail art you should leave a comment over there and ask because she sends it to anyone, free! Amazing, in this day and age.
But my birthday. Mary Jo knows I love to extend the party as long as possible, so she helps me with that by reminding me to keep on celebrating. My birthday cards can NEVER be late. It just isn’t possible. I’d go the whole year if I could do it and not be disowned by my family.
And linking my birthday with art, extension of partytime, and Fibonnacci? Well, that’s quite a dramatic statement. A Fibonacci sequence falls into the following pattern:
0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89…
Each number is the sum of the previous two. Sounds simple, right? It is simple, but it is also astonishing. This beautiful spiraling series is all over the place: in sunflower heads, pine cones, avacados, pineapples, honeybees, nautilus shells, and ferns. Many flowering, curling, swooping things are designed and unfold in a Fibonacci series.
I might just spiral through my celebrations in an endless swoon of mathematical artistry.
You never thought about it quite that way, did you?
By the way, I just got her Christmas (New Year’s, Martin Luther King Jr., Valentine’s Day) card in the mail. I have the coolest friends imaginable.
I didn’t bring this book home, the Husband did, but it had a really cool cover so I picked it up. And I meandered through the first several chapters because anything that explains my husband’s brain to me is frequently of interest.
And after those first few chapters (during which I learned that Pythagoras was so aware of the import of his formulation of the Pythagorean Theorem that he ordered 100 oxen barbequed, super cool!) I suddenly stumbled on a gem: a chapter giving the foundations of physics.
EVERY time someone asks the question, “Is light a particle or a wave?” I experience a rush of ecstasy.
“Yes!” I shout, then force myself to stillness so that I can fully appreciate the story of the double-slit electron experiment. It’s like opening the same Christmas present every year; I already know what’s inside, I’m thrilled to be getting it again, and I can’t wait to play with my quantum erasers and half-alive, half-dead cats. The Copenhagen interpretation is my launch point into the greatest joys of the universe.
For me, physics is like a hot tub in the middle of a giant parking lot full of gravel. Mathematics is the gravel.
For me, physics is like a hot tub in the middle of a giant parking lot full of gravel. Mathematics is the gravel. I am forced to walk barefoot over all that wretched, sharp gravel before I can sink gratefully into the steaming warmth of physics, both quantum and planetary.
My husband, on the other hand, is a born mathematician. For him, the gravel is actually the glowing, thousand-hued crystals of an enormous multi-dimensional puzzle; one he would happily spend the rest of his life working to solve. The hot tub he barely notices as he gleefully sorts crystals into organized piles, stacks, and towers.
Sigh. I guess what I meant to say is that we’re both nerds.
I have some awesome online friends. They are fearless and have mountains of self-esteem. They dug deep and sacrificed their good name and reputation in order to keep me from being the only wretched soul airing my bad poetry, and I thank them for this.
And you, the readers, have chosen a Bad Bad Poetry Regent; one who will rule from on low until we drink too many beers, forget how painful this was, and decide to do it again. I checked the votes at midnight on Friday to see who would be crowned, and I present to you your Queen (by a very narrow margin): Jessica Commins, whose anguished musical poem “When Songs Become Dated” brought her to this sad, sad day.
Queen Jessica’s poem ran neck and neck with Hugh Hollowell’s submission nearly the entire course of the day, and for a while the blogoverse wondered whether the dead cat poem — which sticks painfully in the mind like Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” — would topple Commins’s misery-laden love-gone-wrong song.
Hugh, I wanted to award you a gem-studded sword as a second prize in order to remind you that the pen might be mightier than the sword, but sometimes a sword is just a better choice of toys. My boys will affirm this, in case you doubt.
Jessica, you will soon be the (tearful?) recipient of a white satin sash with blue glitter iron-on words that proclaim you our BBP Winner. I would have made the sash say “Winner/Loser” but I didn’t have enough o’s. It also has several winged skulls with little hearts for eyes, which I think add just the right touch of painful kitch and would probably serve as the perfect logo for our next contest. My 9 year old (pictured) helped me make the sash in return for payment in candy corn. Sadly, all you get is the sash. And the infamy.
People, go dig up your old love letters, bad poetry, and related detritus and burn it now. Or else have it close at hand for the next Bad Bad Poetry contest. Because nothing, no nothing in the world is better than a sash with glitter letters. (And the next one might have fringe…fake fur!…stick-on-gems! Hey wait, don’t burn those poems!)
Bad poetry in 7th grade is like the plague; it sweeps inevitably through (probably related to poor hygiene) and takes a monstrous toll; the survivors recover, bury the dead, and try to face life once again. This heinous sheet of notebook paper should have been buried to prevent future outbreaks, but my mother kept it, possibly as a tool to convince some future boy she didn’t like to stop dating me. Why, Mother? Why?
I had no idea this paper was in my own possession until I happened to sift through a small box of unsorted odds and ends in a closet last week. I pulled it out and nearly choked when I read the pair of poems I’d written there. I raced downstairs to declaim them to my family in ponderous, anguished tones:
The Moth
His wings, gray and silver
propel him quickly
to the leaf. A great shadow
came over him. A tremendous
beak scooped him up and
carried him into dizzy
heights, then dropped him
fluttering, fluttering to the
ground. He fell on the leaf
and quietly died. The moth.
The Buck
He bounded over the brush
with ease. Animals watching with
respect, awe and fear. His great
antlers brush against the spring
leaves. He goes bounding, bounding
into the distance, pausing once
only for water at a stream,
his reflection shining in the
sun. A shot rang out,
and he jerked and slowed
his pace. Another shot. He
staggered and fell to the ground,
and quietly died.
The Husband (stunned): That’s… beautiful, Honey. Oh, my God. It’s easy to see how you turned into such a great writer. The Maker (puzzled): What’s that about, Mom? Me: DEATH, son. It’s about DEATH. I’m sure I won an award, if there was one. The Ice (incredulous): You got a prize for that? The Husband: What the hell is with all the “fluttering, fluttering” and the “bounding, bounding?” Is that some kinda theme? Good gawd, that’s awful. Me: You people just don’t understand.
You may consider the Deadly Death Duo above my entry in the Bad Bad Poetry Contest, which I hereby inaugurate. Some other friends have graciously contributed their own Bad Bad Poetry as well, and I hope you will give them the attention and startled whoops they deserve.
At the bottom of the post you’ll find a poll where you can cast your vote for the winning BBP entry. And please take a moment to post your comments, snarks, praise, and wisecracks; it’s all about the fame and glory for us here. Bring it on.
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Entry #2: Sonja Foust
Sonja Foust (@SonjaFoust) has been a bad bad poet for most of her life, but started writing irreverent poetic spoofs of the classics in college under the stresses of obtaining an English Literature degree. Her works include “The Lady Whines a Lot (with apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson)” and far more limericks than strictly prudent. In her other, non-poetic life, Sonja is a romance author. You can visit her at http://sonjafoust.com!
THE DIFFERENT INDIFFERENT (apologies to John Donne)
I can love both wheat and white;
That which the oven melts, and that served slightly chilled;
That which needs provolone, and that with pickles dilled;
That which is deep fat fried, or which is lite;
That with tuna, and that with meat;
That which delights with peppers’ heat,
And that which has honeyéd mustard sweet;
Sandwiches many, I will gladly eat.
Will no other food content me?
Will it not serve to eat a burger, or whatever?
Or have I so, on bread and meat, become fixated ever?
Or doth a fear of foods so new torment me?
Oh, sandwiches are good, I know.
I eat them because it is so.
Rob me, and bind me up, and be my foe,
But do not take my sandwiches from me,
Or make me eat each new food that you do see.
Subway heard me sigh this song,
And by marketing scheme, big moola, it swore
If I would write it down, and then make the poém a whore
To sell, commercialled, to the fast-food throng.
I said, “Hell yes! Some four or three
Or even two hundred will be
Enough to ’stablish a bargain with me.”
I did not tell them that mere sandwich whole,
Or even a half sandwich would have bought my soul.
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Entry #3: Doc Blob
@DocBlob contributed this lovely bad bad poem. He says: I wrote this poem with a good friend in high school when we were probably in 10th grade. We got onto a kick of writing stupid, abstract, or just silly poems to pass time during chemistry/biology/english/everyotherclass. I probably have a book full of similar stuff back at home. My old youth group pastor forwarded this one to me on Facebook a few weeks ago when he found it lying around the house. Must have been a very strange gift we gave him for Christmas…
Candies and nuts, candies and nuts
it sure isn’t Christmas without lots of nuts
Nuts of all kinds and candies too.
How can I explain the significance to you
What kind of nuts do we find all about
Red ones and green ones and blue nuts, no doubt.
Deep I reach into a stocking with hope
Not to find eggs, flour, ear wax, or soap
Nor pickles or hairballs or cigarette butts
I hope to find only…candies and nuts.
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Entry #4 and #5: Jeff Puckett
Jeff didn’t send me any information with which to enlighten you about his entry, preferring instead to let the simple words of these two haiku stand on their own.
Oh witchy woman.
Can’t see the moon in your eyes,
but you do fly high.
* * * * *
The desperado
Inspires, as we drive o’er
Seven Bridges Road.
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Entry #6 and #7: Jessica Commins
Jessica Commins, @Renewabelle on Twitter (and JessiBelle on Facebook), spent the ’90s battling air thieves in Orlando, Florida, where most of her awesomely bad poetry was crafted. She has read Plath’s Bell Jar more times than is socially acceptable and someday hopes to beat her all-time high score of 12,656,290 on the pinball game, “No Good Gofers.”
Jess sent me three marvelously awful poems and told me I could choose one, but since I have a pair of poems as my own entry, I decided to post two of hers and let you Dear Reader enjoy them in all their glory. Keep in mind they were originally written in glitter pen. And the second one was written to be a song. Which she actually performed once or twice. This is fun, isn’t it?
The vanity of my hunger is suffocating, stronger by the minute.
I could live off the stimulants of starvation for so long.
Blackened berries and pitted cherries, how does the sweetened wind blow?
With ammunition and politicians eating yellow snow.
They won’t kill the mockingbird, just blow up his tree.
A burning martyr for the day.
How does one know everything?
Conspiring minds want to advise a slip into the infinite symphony…
Blind are the eyes of the lover. Tripled are those of a genius.
The battered romantic nomadically searches for an invisible median.
To find a reason to believe, yet know.
To hold their heart in a bag of pepper and laugh.
To find the strength to lose the muscle.
To find herself again…
(dated 1-21-97)
When songs become dated, I feel like a record that’s aged.
I skip over tracks but always sound better on stage.
The fuzz, it dilutes. The needle induces the strain.
Is it pain that is present, or is it just dust in the grooves?
My sleeve’s worn and tattered, not like it matters to you.
Waiting for your favorite line, the one you sing all the time.
I wrote it, but it was never mine.
Spinning, you play me. Side B, you make me sing it all back to you.
The best thing about records is the way that they smell when they’re new.
The tracks hold a shelf life, but someday they’re tired and through.
I waited to date me, never wanted to rate me.
I thought I could make myself new.
But you keep on waiting for your line. The one you sing all the time.
I wrote it, but it was never mine. Oh no, it was never mine.
The line you sing all the time, was always written for you.
(not dated, but it had to be sometime around 1999 or 2000)
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Entry #8: Hugh Hollowell
Not to be left out, Hugh Hollowell, a man of few words, swiftly emailed this entry to me as soon as the call went out. I present it here for your consideration.
Split
Splat
It once
Was a cat.
Bad Bad Poetry Contest Anti-Entry #9: Sine Botchen
Actually, this next one isn’t BBP, so I’m not including it in the voting below. I’m sharing it with you as a reward for suffering through all the rest of our poems, and you must be sure and send a tweet out to @mx4789 (as he’s known on Twitter) or leave a comment on the photo of this poem on Flickr and tell him how this is way better than unicorns with rainbow-colored manes.
Sine sez: This was a “poem” I wrote in either 1st or 2nd grade and probably the only (and last) time I ever voluntarily did anything resembling school work (writing and all) that wasn’t 1.) mandatory and, 2.) actually school work. I remember sitting at the big old desk in my brother’s and my room and laboring at this for what seemed like hours. I even attempted to write the first line in cursive (which I cropped out in the photo) but mistakenly joined all the words together in one big “run on” sentence.
As my hiar blows in the wind
it flys behind me so long and shiny it sparkels
so brit the color of snow is it and its my hiar
Okay friends and neighbors, it’s your turn to support the rest of us in our agony. Vote and comment!
When I was in school the only book we ever passed around was Judy Blume’s Wifey, which had sex scenes. We shared the novel furtively, like we were slipping over a nickel bag of pot; no one knew who owned it — the same dog-eared copy must have passed through the locker of every female in 8th grade.
So imagine my surprise when the First brought home a honking doorstopper of a book which — get this — a girl had loaned him. No sex in the entire thing, either. You guessed it, it was Twilight.
I tried to engage with the Twilight phenomenon, I really did. But it clearly wasn’t written for me so I returned the 4-pound hardback (the First had read it in a flash) and back it went to the girl who convinced him to read it in the first place. (She soon sent home boat anchor number two in the series.)
Recently my nine-year-old son was loaned a copy of the Twilight movie by a girl on his bus. (What is it with girls today?) I figured the movie would be more accessible, so last night I sat on the couch with all three of my boys and watched the first half.
Two things:
1. There’s nothing interesting about these vampires. Yes, Eddie-boy is brooding and beautiful (I actually like the Jacob character more), but that isn’t enough to carry the film. Plus, the girl has one expression, rather like Elijah Wood’s Frodo in the LOTR series. Boy do I ever get tired of that same look.
2. There’s nothing interesting about these special effects. Let me tell you who rocks the effects: Chow Yun Fat films and their like. You know, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Curse of the Golden Flower, Hero, House of Flying Daggers and all the others. Dude, ninja-types get me totally jacked up, how they can balance on a perfect autumn leaf in mid-air while their robes billow about them and their sword gleams. Epic. These vampires have a little bit of super speed, but CYF and his crew would kick their vampire butts in any show-down, any day, no question.
So. I’ll finish watching it with the boys tonight, but I ain’t expecting much. Feel free to weigh in and convince me otherwise. Did you like it? Why or why not?
