So up here in the Great White North (yeah, it’s snowing in Halifax today) there’s this glitzy, celebrity-filled literary award called the Giller Prize. Or so I’m told. I’ve never been, but whatevs.
In any case, guess what undead creature got an invite to present at the awards ceremony?
A vampire first.
Kudos to you, Victoria. (And thanks to @shinangovani on Twitter for pointing out this momentous occasion.)
Really, this is all to highlight the fact that vampires have (and always will be) the most pretentious creatures of the otherworld. Remember the puffy shirt of Lestat? The fro of Count Dracula? The pea coat of Edward Cullen? Why so much effort into flaunting your status?
You know who wouldn’t be caught undead at one of these fancy shindigs? A werewolf. Besides the dress code—dry-cleaning is expensive enough, let alone unforeseen wear and tear—why would a werewolf need to attend one of these events? Only an attention-hungry, narcissistic, sparkling creature of the night would want to get an invite let alone attend. Oh wait, that describes almost every single vampire I’ve ever read about.
Werewolves have a sense of self-worth that doesn’t have to be validated by society. A lesson from which we can all learn. Have some dignity, vampires. Stop pandering to the literary masses, already. Your time has come and gone. Deal.