I like my fiction without fangs.
But lately, even my favorite authors seem incapable of resisting the lure of blood lust, supernatural powers and other worldly investigative agencies.
It’s as if Anne Rice sank her teeth into all the writers gathered at a writing convention and they went home and started conjuring crime-fighting vampires and vampires in love.
I find it disgusting.
When I am perusing the new fiction shelves at my local library, I grab hold of a mystery in excitement only to learn that the hero has supernatural powers which allow him to see the evil that men do in their minds.
The same for romances. It’s hard enough for young lovelies to sort the bad guys from the good guys. Now they’ve got to watch out for vampires.
I partially blame that dang Stephenie Meyer and her “Twilight” Series. Even though it’s been recommended to me by adults, I absolutely refuse to read about teenage vampires and werewolves in love. Please. Aren’t the teenage years bad enough without choosing between a wispy looking vampire and a hunky werewolf?
So I won’t read the books and I won’t watch the movies. I’ll stick with Nelson DeMille, Lee Child and Patricia Cornwell. Frankly, real life gore is bad enough. I don’t need vampires when there are double agents in the Middle East and corruption to expose in Washington, D.C.
It’s enough to scare a vampire.