Hello.

Let me begin by telling you, my wife made me do this.

Just like she made me read the books that I will be talking about here. Maybe made is a little too harsh. Let's just say she strongly suggested that I read the books. That suggestion was, of course, backed up with the threat of constant badgering and the badgering was backed with the promise of guilt:

"I told you that this was a good book and you refuse to even give it a chance. Do you not trust me? Do you not think that I have good taste in literature?"

Pause.

Then the eyes narrow and the mouth tightens, followed by the all-knowing slow nod, signaling the fact that she has me all figured out.

"You think you are too good for this, don't you?"

"No," I say, "it's just that--"

"Oh, no. You think you're too good for this. This is beneath you, Mr. almost-have-my-doctorate-in-English. Forget about it. I don't need to hear you get all judgey and critical about it anyway."

"But I would really--"

"No. You'll just end up ruining them for me. Forget about it."

Oh, I forgot to mention that the guilt is backed by direct attacks on my character and education.

(By the way, I was not allowed to read any of the books from the Twilight series. Those are sacred. Those are the books that got her reading again. She won't take a chance on me ruining them.)

In all fairness I should admit that her criticisms are not unfounded. I can be a bit of a snob. And I have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself--especially the critical ones. I suppose I feel that I have to prove that all those years I spent in school actually amount to something.

Isn't it funny how it is so much easier to criticize than to praise? I wish I were better about that. I guess I can change that right here. You see, the flip side to my critical portrait of my wife is this: She is passionate about the things she loves. When she becomes lost in someone else's words, she is able to become completely absorbed by their newly created world. She sees and hears and tastes and smells--she feels everything. She is in a state of absolute sensual immersion. At least that is how it appears from the outside.

But that is not all. If she loves something, she wants to share it. She wants those she loves to experience it, too.

And that is really the how and the why of all of this--why I became fascinated by the lives of the inhabitants of Charlaine Harris's supernatural Bon Temps, Louisiana--how I fell into J.R. Ward's enclave of Caldwell, New York--how I became intrigued by her Vampire and Lesser fight club. It is how I came to root for Simon over Jace in Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instrument Series. ( I'm still rooting for him, by the way--even after the series' conclusion. Just Like I'm still rooting for Sam over the Vampires Bill and Eric in Harris's books.) And how I rooted for Mary to make it down the path and out of the forest of hands and teeth in Carrie Ryan's The Forest of Hands and Teeth. I even ended up teaching that one in my Freshman Composition course--the kids love them some zombies.

I have always been a capital "L" Literature guy. Never read a single John Grisham novel.

I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I am not a complete snob. I just prefer to get my pulp entertainment through different media. I love Sci-Fi and reality TV. I love comic books--especially those that focus on origin myths. And I have even been known to sing along at the top of my lungs to Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl." See. Not a snob.

But books? I drew the line there. I was (and still am) a Cormac McCarthy fan (one who prefers Suttree to the Border Trilogy), and a Walker Percy lover. I liked my novels to provide deep insights into the human condition. I wanted novelists inspired by the philosophies of Sartre and Camus. I liked them dark and hopeless.

If there was vampirism, it had to be of the metaphorical variety. It must explain how we, as humans, suck the life from one another. If there were shape shifters, they must only shift internally--the books must show man devolving into beast like they so often do in the works of Harry Crews. Hell? Hell should only come as Sartre said, in the form of other people.

Surely none of it should be literal. Ha! That is plebeian. I can take that in my comics--but not in my books. Not in my Literature.

Here, my wife might rightly point out the fact that a man completely obsessed with the Muppets has no right to be so self-righteous and intellectually pompous.

To that I would say, "But, uh, but, Jim Henson was a genius. He was freakin' JIM. HENSON."

Then I would drop my head and say, "Touché. I am pompous--and inconsistent. And I wish Gonzo the Great was real and my best friend."

Then I would run to my bedroom and cry, because that dream will never come true.

So . . . Back to vampires and werewolves and demons from hell.

But what do I write? How do I approach this?

I asked my wife what she envisioned when she first brought this whole thing up and this is what she had to say:

"Just write about what you thought about the books. Talk about the writing and the characters. You know--things you wouldn't say to me because you know I'd hurt you."

Okay, if you say so. Into the breach . . .