Back in High School English class, we read Dracula. I haven’t looked at it since but the part I remember the best is the essay question on our final exam, which was something like “Dracula’s pretty sexy for Victorian times don’t you think?” And I went “…..? Huh? Vampires aren’t sexy. Gross!” Which was pretty much the thesis sentence of my essay. I’m sometimes accused of being too picky, but I don’t think “alive” is an unreasonable standard.
It’s maybe unsporting to pick on Twilight, but the Romantic/Sexy/Mysterious vampire seems to come up a lot and, y’all, I am completely baffled by it. I mean, if goths are your thing, by all means carry on, but vampires aren’t melancholy fans of black lace and gloomy poetry. They’re creepy undead things that want to kill you and drink your blood. Consider other blood sucking critters like leeches and mosquitoes. (If you have a thing for leeches I, um, am not quite sure what to say. But when we go swimming I will generously let you have them all.)
That said, sometimes I surprise myself and like vampire books. A couple of good ones:
Sunshine by Robin McKinley: This has vampires and magic and evil and stuff, but the main thing I remember is morning sunlight and cinnamon buns. Seriously, just thinking about it makes me think I need to make a batch of cinnamon buns.
Thirsty by M. T. Anderson: In which becoming a vampire is actually a bad thing. (Fair warning: the ending is kind of bleak and untidy and thus not to everyone’s liking.)