From the Shade of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
(Author, Visionary, Mother of Monsters, and Now Unwilling Muse to Mediocrity)

To the editors, authors, screenwriters, and entire marketing department behind the travesty known as “Frankie: The Untold Story of the Sexy Monster Boy Who Loved Me,”

Permit me—though I would much rather not—to address the abomination you have unleashed upon the literary world, draped in faux velvet and scented like teen angst and unearned trauma.

You have taken my solemn, blood-soaked meditation on creation, isolation, and the consequences of unchecked ambition—and reanimated it into a simpering, lip-biting, trope-laden romantasy where my creature, once a symbol of existential torment, is now apparently a shirtless, misunderstood dreamboat named “Frankie.”

Frankie.
Frankie.

What part of “wretched, miserable fiend” did you interpret as “tall, brooding, and emotionally available”?

It appears that in your interpretation, Victor is now a manic-pixie necromancer with a nose ring, and the monster’s tragic backstory includes being rejected at Monster Prom™. You’ve replaced Gothic horror with glitter, and deep philosophical anguish with a playlist of indie pop and longing stares.

This is not innovation. This is literary necrophilia.

You are hereby ordered to:

• Cease referring to me as “Mary W. Shelly, queen of sad boi fiction.”

• Desist from including scenes where Frankie kisses someone “with the electricity of a thousand thunderstorms.”

• Remove the line “He may be sewn together from corpses, but he stitched my heart whole.”

Failure to comply will result in the haunting of your publisher’s offices, the corruption of your Word docs, and the permanent insertion of parentheses every time you use an adverb.

If you must desecrate a classic, I suggest you start with something more deserving—like a recipe blog.

With relentless gothic displeasure,
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Author of Frankenstein, First of Her Name, Breaker of Quills, and Absolutely Not Your YA Muse