Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

My story begins not on a page, but in a flash of lightning on a dark and stormy night. Before I was a book, I was just an idea, a tiny spark flickering in the candlelight of a beautiful house called the Villa Diodati by a lake in Switzerland. The year was 1816, and it was a cold, rainy summer. My creator, a very clever and imaginative young woman named Mary, was staying there with her friends. One of them was the famous poet Lord Byron. To pass the gloomy evenings, he challenged everyone to write the scariest ghost story they could imagine. For days, Mary thought and thought, but nothing came. Then, one night, she had a terrifying dream. She saw a pale scientist kneeling beside a creature he had put together. She watched as the creature began to stir with a strange, powerful energy. The scientist was horrified by his own creation. That single, vivid dream was the moment I was truly born. I am a story that asks some of the biggest questions in the world. I am Frankenstein.

Mary Shelley, who was only eighteen years old at the time, began to write my story right away. Can you imagine creating something so famous when you were still a teenager. I could feel myself taking shape as her pen scratched across the paper, the ink forming my every word, my every scene. I tell the tale of a brilliant but reckless scientist named Victor Frankenstein. He becomes obsessed with discovering the secret to life itself. He collects old body parts and, in his secret laboratory, he builds a creature. But when he finally brings it to life, and the creature opens its watery yellow eyes, Victor is filled with disgust and terror. He runs away, abandoning the being he made. My story then follows his creation. He is not a monster on the inside. He is intelligent, gentle, and desperately lonely. He tries to find his place in a world where everyone screams and runs from him simply because of how he looks. After many months of hard work, Mary finished writing my tale. I was first published for the world to read on January 1st, 1818. But something was missing from my cover: Mary’s name. In those days, it was very rare for a woman to write such a shocking and thoughtful story, so she published me without giving her name at first.

For over 200 years, I have made people think, wonder, and maybe even feel a little bit scared. My full title is Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. This connects my story to an ancient Greek myth about a Titan who created humans from clay and gave them fire. I was one of the very first stories of my kind, and I helped start a whole new way of storytelling called science fiction. People have told my story again and again in plays, comic books, and many movies. Sometimes the creature looks big and green with bolts in his neck, but that look was invented for the movies. No matter how my story is told, the important questions I ask never change. I am more than just a spooky tale for Halloween. I am a reminder to be kind to those who seem different and to think carefully about the things we create and our responsibility for them. I live on to spark your imagination and ask you a question that never gets old: what does it truly mean to be human?