I ended the month by finishing one of the first books I started, Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. This is one that I had read in middle school when I went through a period of movie monster obsession, so I was shocked to find how little of the work I remembered. Despite having read it, I had the sincere belief that the storyline was similar to the common Hollywood depiction, which feels like a powerful statement on the power of cultural storytelling; however, I really appreciated what Shelley does here. You can tell this is a female-authored text of a woman who has experienced the loss of a mother, and you can tell that the now typical western depiction of the story has been adapted and coopted by men. Instead of a story of creation and genius and power and madness, Mary Shelley’s original template is instead a story of the toxic nature of male ego and of regret and betrayal. I really appreciated all that Hall and Ravn taught me of Shelley’s background in their books this month that heightened my understanding and appreciation of this text.