So. I find myself in a trap of my own making, caught between Angela Carter on one side and Stephanie Meyers on the other, because I have decided to write about wolves. More specifically about wolves and people with an indefinite and poorly defined line between them.
Currently, I have a short, ten-minute, play with one character who is a wolf and who is also, somehow, human (or, at least, appears to be). I managed to write that without leaping to the obvious conclusion that everyone reading this will reach in a few milli-seconds: I have written about a werewolf. Which is where Angela and Stephanie come in.
I have not read the Twilight Saga and do not intend to. I have not read Angela Carter’s wolf and werewolf short stories, but I have bought a copy of The Bloody Chamber, the collection in which they appear, and I will read them in the next few days. I am, though, wary, as they will inevitably change by thinking on the subject, and I will lose the knowing innocence that has served me so far.
My problem is that I don’t really want to write about werewolves, certainly not in the Meyeresque (hence the title of the post). I don’t want the huge, leapy, instantly-transforming things of team Jacob (even without reading/watching I know too much). I don’t even want the dorky New Zealand werewolves of What we do in the shadows (that good, but bloody vampire comedy).
I want to write about wolves and people. As yet, I don’t know how to do that, but I will find out in the only way I know how: by writing about it. And I’m starting to think I might want the wolf of Gubbio.