{"id":5707,"date":"2016-05-25T17:33:20","date_gmt":"2016-05-25T12:03:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/13.201.39.237\/?p=5707"},"modified":"2016-05-25T17:33:20","modified_gmt":"2016-05-25T12:03:20","slug":"going-back-to-young-adult-novels-at-32","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/13.207.105.184\/?p=5707","title":{"rendered":"Why I Keep Going Back to My Young Adult Novels\u2026 Even at 32"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I<\/span>think we\u2019re close enough to the end to be able to call it \u2014 2019 was a hell of a year. And by that I mean that if one of the middle circle of hell was plucked out of Dante\u2019s Inferno and magicked into a year, I\u2019m convinced it would look like 2019. It was the year I suffered health scares and the worst heartbreak<\/span><\/a> of my life so far, and they both came in the same week. It was the year I possibly spent more time outside doctors\u2019 waiting rooms across cities; it was the year I cried a lot and barely got any sleep. And it wasn’t just me alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Most people I know \u2014 or perhaps I naturally gravitated towards the ones who were struggling as much or worse than I was \u2014 would call 2019 the bleakest year of their lives so far: Marriages fell apart, a friend let go of his dream job to save his relationship, another had a nervous breakdown and quit her job after going 84 days without a day off. It was\u2026 a sucky year, and that\u2019s putting it mildly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So obviously, we all found uniquely dysfunctional ways to avoid dealing with our crises. I\u2019m particularly in awe of the friend who lived hers out by fully stepping into the role of the rich diva we\u2019ve always suspected has been hiding somewhere inside of her \u2014 she took off to Japan to learn Ikebana, the ancient art of flower arrangement. For six whole months. Far be it from me to diss someone else\u2019s form of escapism; my own, while being decidedly far more economical, is equally embarrassing. You see, I\u2019ve spent most of this year hibernating in my room, devouring books from my past. And by past I mean when I was a teenager. It\u2019s not that I haven\u2019t read any <\/span><\/i>age-appropriate <\/span>literature<\/span><\/a> this year, it\u2019s just that the lure of teen characters experiencing their first shocking brushes with adulthood has been greater than joining dog tired, hardened adults in their emotionally depleting journeys.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so, my reading pile includes well-thumbed copies of all 16 titles within The Princess Diaries <\/span><\/i>series,<\/span> The Hunger Games<\/span><\/i><\/a> trilogy, <\/span>The Fault In Our Stars<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Carrie Diaries<\/span><\/i>, 13 <\/span>Gossip Girl<\/span><\/i> books, an assortment of titles from the exhaustive <\/span>Sweet Valley High<\/span><\/i> and <\/span>Sweet Valley University <\/span><\/i>series\u2019, the five <\/span>The Sisterhood Of The Travelling Pants <\/span><\/i>books, <\/span>Fangirl<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Hate You Give<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Outsiders<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Perks Of Being A Wallflower<\/span><\/i>\u2026 I even attempted one of the <\/span>Twilight<\/span><\/i> books but I\u2019m relieved to report that I\u2019m at least too old to be able to stomach that level of stupidity. They\u2019re well-thumbed because this isn\u2019t the first time I\u2019ve buried myself in the warm embrace of Young Adult or YA novels. Over the years, I\u2019ve gone back to them often, and I make additions to that corner of my little library every year. Yes, that\u2019s right, here\u2019s my dirty little literary secret: I\u2019m 32, and a non-recovering YA books addict. There, I said it.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Never judge a book by its cover, but there\u2019s no rule against judging a reader for it.<\/blockquote><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know there\u2019s a thriving movement in the Western world, hotly defending adults like me who find themselves routinely absorbed in the lives, vexations, and preoccupations of teenagers. Most of them argue the richness of the backgrounds against which those coming-of-age<\/span><\/a> stories unfold \u2014 the characters might be young and inexperienced, but there\u2019s nothing childlike or simple about the worlds they inhabit. There\u2019s merit in that line of reasoning. YA novels like <\/span>The Hate You Give<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>The Perks Of Being A Wallflower<\/span><\/i>, <\/span>Annie On My Mind<\/span><\/i>, and many others like them thread complex cultural concerns into the challenges that young people encounter while trying to find their place in a bewildering world. Some of these stories are helmed by protagonists so frightfully self-aware and wise beyond their years, they can make full-grown adults feel like gauche, immature babes in the woods.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But when I say that I\u2019m hopelessly addicted to YA books, I\u2019m not talking about those<\/span><\/i> books. I\u2019m talking about the ones that would make most adults shrink in embarrassment to be seen in public with. The ones that most self-respecting readers consider unsophisticated and frivolous at best, and dim-witted at worst. Never judge a book by its cover, but there\u2019s no rule against judging a reader for it. It doesn\u2019t matter what you read in private, but in public, we\u2019d all much rather be seen with the Andrew Seen Greer or Ben Lerner we didn\u2019t fully understand and aren\u2019t particularly taken by. After all, it lends us an aura of respectability, which, when you think about it, is nine tenths the job anyway for all those blessed souls who can\u2019t seem to take a photo without \u201caccidentally\u201d including the impressive book they are currently reading, than be caught dead looking absorbed in the arresting lives of <\/span>Serena, Blair, Nate, and Chuck<\/span><\/a>. Yes, <\/span>those<\/span><\/i> books.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t get me wrong; I\u2019m not dissing literature that is cerebral, challenging, and therefore sometimes difficult to comprehend. There\u2019s great pleasure, and a definite sense of accomplishment to be had in that moment when the penny finally drops and you\u2019re able to get \u2014 really get<\/span><\/i> \u2014 the nuance and delicate layers that the reviewers kept alluding to. I experienced that thrill recently while reading <\/span>Sing<\/span><\/i><\/a>, Unburied, Sing<\/span><\/i> (I\u2019d highly recommend it, by the way). It\u2019s just that I also really, <\/span>really<\/span><\/i> love the literature that has no greater purpose than to entertain in the moment and spark instant joy. Why can\u2019t Upper East Side and the Republic of Gilead co-exist side by side, and be loved equally well by me?\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s something inexplicably comforting about losing yourself in worlds where things might seem bizarre and unnecessarily intertwined, but you know you\u2019re eventually going to be rewarded with a happy, thoroughly satisfying ending. The grown-up, jaded version of you knows<\/span><\/i> that life doesn\u2019t come with any guarantees of happiness, but it\u2019s nice to be able to suspend those thoughts temporarily and be reminded of a time when you believed \u2014 truly believed \u2014 that anything is possible; that in the end, things have a way of magically untangling themselves and working out for all the good guys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No, I\u2019m not stuck in some sad little literary time warp, with my stubborn attachment to the stories I should have outgrown by now. I just like seeing the world through the eyes of people less cynical than me, because I was that un-cynical person, once upon a lifetime ago. When I read The Carrie Diaries<\/span><\/i>, it\u2019s like being transported to my life at 16, when my unpaid internship seemed like the best thing that could ever happen to me and nothing in the world could ruin my bliss (if only I\u2019d known!). When I read <\/span>The Sisterhood Of The Travelling Pants<\/span><\/i>, I\u2019m nostalgic for the friendships and infatuations that seemed like the only thing that mattered in the world and I couldn\u2019t imagine a time when it wouldn\u2019t be the case. These books remind me of who I was before I became who I\u2019ve become. They\u2019ve been sealed with little parts of my younger self, and reading them allows me to <\/span>be<\/span><\/i> her again, if only for a few hours. It\u2019s not a world I want to be a resident of, but one that I want to visit from time to time.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m 32, and a non-recovering YA books addict. And I intend to stay that way.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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