Siddity in the City

Hi there, Steph.

I just finished reading your fourth Twilight Saga novel, Breaking Dawn, and figured I’d drop you a line.

First, kudos: I’m a thirty-year-old woman who recently turned to your series for some much needed literary R&R. You’ve managed to successfully capture and hold my attention without employing tawdry sex, sidesplitting humor, or culinary memoir - three of my favorite subjects. In fact, your characters are abstinent, angry, baffled or depressed, and hungry through the first three installments. Yet, I developed a real liking for your motley cast of hapless teen humans, vampires and werewolves. Three chunky novels filled with teen angst, spiced with undead sabor? Hoo-boy! Good times.

Like other fans, I empathized with Bella, an awkward teen girl unaware of her own power. I joined Team Jacob, rooting for the warm, constant boy over Edward, the cold, distant screw-up she seemed to prefer (this should be no surprise to anyone who knows me. I was on Team Aiden as soon as he turned up on SatC). I loved your characters, though, even the irritating ones. I

So when your publisher released BD last weekend I rushed right out and bought a copy, allegedly the final novel in the series, and plowed through it in a night. But as I read, I suffered a vague, unshakeable sense of disappointment.

Part of that was the fact that it was a big old mess, more than 750 pages of zzZZZZzzz, meh, and a steaming, heaping helping of yougottabefreakingkiddingme. Too much convoluted plot with an anticlimactic climax and a too-neat, too-happy ending (made worse by the absolute ruination of my favorite character, I cannot believe you actually disposed of Jacob by pairing him up with that vampire spawn. Whipped by a toddler? You’re shitting me. You could have had a whole series from his perspective. Sigh.)

But, as I consider what I’ve read, I’m bothered by something else, too. In this imagined world, I am conspicuously absent. There are werewolves and vampires roaming the woods, but no one darker than “russet” haunting the streets. In 2,444 pages of unlikely plots that span three continents, stalked by dozens of lead and supporting characters, there are. No. Black. People.

What the hell is up with that, SM? Your fertile little mind could imagine a half-human vampire toddler pairing up with a werewolf boy 17 years her senior, and ancient Egyptians and natives from the jungles of Brazil find their way into your make-believe town in the Pacific Northwest to stave off an inter-species showdown, but your protagonist couldn’t have a token black friend at the lunch table? Really?

This isn’t at all uncommon, of course. God knows I should be used to being left out by now. But I find it especially galling in contemporary fantasy fiction. How should I feel when, even in the realm of extreme improbability, an integrated landscape featuring people of African descent is unheard of? At best, you don’t care about someone like me (and at worst, I’m being actively rejected).

I’m not pinning this all on your shoulders, or at least, I don’t mean to. I’m worrying an old wound of mine, really. I read a great deal, across most genres, and this is a trend that has not escaped my notice. Most non-black writers ignore us, with some very notable exceptions (Neil Gaiman and China Mieville come immediately to mind, which is part of the reason I love them so.) And to be totally fair, I haven’t read The Host yet, so perhaps I’ll read a brown face there. But frankly, I’ve grown rather weary of giving my money to people who literally cannot spare a thought for me. So while you’re polishing up your next cash cow, whether that’s Midnight Sun or some other spin-off of supernatural adolescent romance, consider not pretending this chunk of your buying public is invisible. Please.

Thanks a ton,

Sid