Day 22178

I suppose there is nothing more appropriate on Halloween weekend to take in a showing of Frankenstein at the movie theater. On second thought, I suppose that’s only an old fashioned way to spend a cold, dark evening. We were one of three couples in the theater on a Saturday night.

It makes me fearful that public showings of movies will die before I do. That is a shame, because I have always loved sitting in a darkened theater with popcorn, soda, and Rasinettes at the ready to look at 40-foot high actors telling me a story.

This version of Frankenstein was a passion project by Guillermo del Toro, the guy responsible for “Pan’s Labyrinth,” “The Devil’s Backbone,” and a couple of Hellboy movies. Still, the main attraction was the latest interpretation of Mary Shelly’s classic tale, first published in 1818.

After the showing, my love and I discussed the movie and the Frankenstein tale. My question was why Frankenstein? Why, out of all the gothic horror stories written around the same time, has that one lasted? I’ve read the book and found it to be dense and plodding. I know it’s a classic, and rightfully so, but the language and pacing is very much from another place and time.

As someone who had written my own novels, I wonder if they will find an audience in the future. Actually, I don’t. My works are irrelevant to nearly everyone except myself. That’s okay, though. I don’t know that I could handle the fame.