Frankenstein. Honest Horror Story.

Call me crazy, but for once the source of my inspiration comes from something introduced to me in school. Granted, it IS the product of English class, one that would naturally spark the writing process. My inspiration came to me within the pages of a classic, Frankenstein. I didn't expect to thoroughly enjoy a book required for school, but the further I get into it, the more I find myself in awe. In any fragile state of emotion, words speak to you in the strangest of places. This book is my strange place, and one of the sole source of small comfort I have found in a really awful time.

I know what you may be thinking, don't people call Frankenstein a horror story? Well, yes. I guess it's misleading to say the book itself has me captivated. Rather, the language has me amazed. The honesty the characters show in their speech and written word floors me. While we express emotion today, I'll grant that much, we fail in comparison to the beautiful expression Shelley uses. A father is broken over the loss of his child, and the complete helpless passion that he expresses in his letter to his estranged oldest is absolutely heartbreaking, and shockingly refreshing. He is exposed and vulnerable, and unashamed to make it known.

Why is it that today that we so often refuse to swallow our pride? The grieving say "I'm sad," "Why did this happen to me?" and "I miss them so much." But the grieving in Frankenstein tear their hearts out of them, and literally sicken themselves with grief. They die from loss. They write long, extensive letters of complete and total despair. Their tears don't dry and they don't attempt to make petty comforts. This is the grieving process at its most honest.


So much is lost when we force our emotions into pre-sized packing boxes.