The other night our book club had its first meeting, and I was very happy to have chosen our first book. We all read “Lips Touch” by Laini Taylor, because I told everyone that I’d read it and it’s lovely and dreamy. YA fiction is the bulk of what I read, and also what I love to write. This came up in the club meeting, as several of the girls admitted that they found the book to be a little weird and stated that it wasn’t a book they normally would have chosen for themselves. One girl said that her favorite books are the literary classics, and another said that she’d just finished “The Great Gatsby”. I get that YA isn’t a genre for everyone, YA fantasy especially. But for me: it’s the bee’s knees.
Then, to my mortification, a few of the girls mentioned to the other girls that I’ve been writing something.
“Oh, well when you feel comfortable enough to share, you should bring it and let us read it!”
But because everyone had just said that YA fantasy isn’t their cup of tea, the idea of putting my stuff out there for “feedback” didn’t seem all that appealing. Cuz I’m not really writing The Great Gatsby II. And it was at this point that I heard myself say, “Well, I’m just writing YA fantasy stuff.”
Just YA fantasy stuff. Hearing that come out of my mouth, I kind of wanted to punch myself in the face. Suggesting that YA fantasy is somehow beneath other genres of writing is an insult to the fabulous YA fantasy writers everywhere. Because Laini Taylor? Can turn a kickass phrase like nobody’s business. Maggie Stiefvater, Scott Westerfeld, Neil Gaiman, M.T. Anderson… amazingly talented writers.
Feeling the need to justify why I love to read — and write — YA seems dumb. And yet as I sat there the other night (and here today…) I feel it… the need to tell you why.
It is not because I think that I am still 15 years old. It is because I find the age of 15 to be insanely complex, magical, horrible, scary, romantic, anxious, horny, dreamy… and in so many ways intensely more interesting than the age of 30. The teen years are interesting to me, even as I am well aware that I am no longer in them. What other decade in life is one thrust into such transformation? The change between 20 and 30?… m’eh. The change between 30 and 40?… yawn. But the change between 10 and 20 is intense and huge. Bodies become bigger, stronger, grown-up. Hormones threaten to take over one’s very existence. Teens have the same working bodies and the same range of emotions that adults have, but without the benefit of experience or perspective to balance and tame them. What teens feel is raw, not tempered or numbed. Which is why when experiencing the crushing pain of that first lost love, a teen feels like they will absolutely die. Like their heart may literally break. And why the first time a teen is betrayed by a best friend, they believe they’ll never trust anyone again…ever.
I have mad respect for teenagers. I don’t think teens are stupid or need to have things spoon fed to them like infants with rice cereal dribbling down their chins. They get it. They totally get it. They may even get it more than you do. Which is why I think teens need great writers writing things for them. Things that are honest… things they can read –nay! — devour before they grow up and become adults — tempered, balanced, numb-ish, socially adjusted, and (dare I say it?) boring adults.
This is why I love YA. I read it. I write it. I frickin love it.
So sue me.
