On Reading YA

On Reading YA

Sometimes I get in a mood where I think I can’t read young adult books anymore.

I think:  Do depressed and suicidal teenagers REALLY have that much energy to plan such elaborate posthumous revenge scenarios?

I think:  Does everyone’s best friend in high school have to be a kooky sidekick with a wicked sense of humor/style/irony?

I think: Are you really going to spend your days killing demons and vampires and werewolves and making out with that stoic, rock-hard-abs guy eternally? Is taking off your bra THAT big of a deal? Second base? The sex doesn’t really get any safer, kids. Just go for it.

But then someone’ll knock it outta the park. And I’m back in love.

Like Rob Thomas’ Rats Saw God. Damn. I wish I wrote that book so bad. There are million things I could quote from it that just rock me. That are so funny or spot-on or just baldly sad.

This is why I read YA. Something about the observations of that time of life that these authors make is just so satisfying. Some way of describing a first experience that makes me feel so lucky. Like I get to live extra lives besides my regular dumb one here in Vinyl Siding Chain-Link Fence-Ville.

Like, I can’t wait to get my mitts on Kirstin Cronn-Mill’s Beautiful Music for Ugly Children. And Geoff Herbach’s Nothing Special. And Veronica Roth’s Insurgent. And Steven Brezenoff’s Brooklyn, Burning. And, yes, I can’t lie, Cassandra Clare’s Clockwork Prince.

I can’t believe how rich it makes me feel, knowing all these good stories await me.

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