I won’t lie. When I heard about this book “Fifty Shades of Grey,” I knew I was going to read it. In fact, I wanted to … really badly. So I went out and borrowed the book (because I can’t rightfully justify purchasing pornographic material to my inner conscious mind) and read it. I started off pretty skeptical, then became super impatient for the juicy parts. But once the juicy parts came (ha, sex joke) I became progressively more uncomfortable.
Soon, however, I found myself actually becoming attached to the main characters and their personal vendettas, but as fast as I became acutely aware of my love for the ever mystifying (and hot) Christian Grey and overly dramatic Anastasia Steele, I became irritated with the seriously poor writing style and repetitive … er … constantly sexual plot. I ended the book with a pit of sexual frustration at the terrible ending and unfulfilling (lack of a legitimate) cliffhanger.
Let me just begin by saying that everyone should probably read this book — regardless of gender or experience. Why? Because it’s a cultural symbol of course — our stamp on society that says, “What? Soft core porn in a literary format? HELL YEAH, LET’S DO IT.” And let me tell you, this cultural phenomenon has taken over if it weren’t already painstakingly obvious in the sole fact that I’m writing about it now.
BUT, this is not what I’m here to talk about. I’m here to tell you why this book is probably up there as one of the best and worst novels to ever cross my path.
There’s no denying that humans are attracted to things that are sexually explicit and scandalous. It’s our inherent nature. So naturally, “Fifty Shades of Grey”provides us with an outlet through which to release our wild side without appearing all that peculiar — though I can’t deny that I received some very judgmental looks whilst reading this book openly in public. This is what makes it a great bad novel. It’s a page turner, regardless of its awful plot. It appeals to what we guiltily love, and that method works.
But here’s the thing, reading about sex … it’s weird guys. It’s really weird. There’s this unfamiliar and bizarre situation you find yourself in where you’re not exactly sure how to pace reading about “the moment” and the rhythm just feels off. On top of that, narrated sex is also really awkward. Because for the life of me I can’t find anything sexy or erotic in reading about Ana shouting, “arghh!” as she … um … “finds her release.” *Cue uncomfortable twitch*
Then, there’s just the writing style in general. We’re on the same level as Twilight, my people. And who is really surprised? This novel is essentially the relationship Bella and Edward always wanted but could never have because Stephanie Meyer decided to keep it pretty PG for the kiddies. The innocent and insecure damsel falling for the mysterious and light-eyed hunk whose relationship is completely toxic, but it continues anyway because of a deep unknown magnetic attraction and passionate love. Trust me, I could write a whole other article about the uncanny (and potentially purposeful) resemblance “Fifty Shades of Grey” has to “Twilight,” but I won’t waste your time or completely burn to ashes my personal and highly valuable reputation. The point is, Nicholas Sparks is probably somewhere making fun of E. L. James’ writing and that, my friends, is sad. So very sad.