I would like to think that I’m a big girl now. I have a car, own a house, and pay all of my bills. I do my laundry and clean. I’m beginning my eleventh year of teaching, and will be starting the work towards a PhD in just a little over a week. I have a husband and two little kids. Yeah, I feel pretty grown up most of the time. And I’m okay with that.
But despite the cold hard facts of adulthood slapping me around daily, I still hold on to those teenage years through the literature I read. Now, let me be clear. I’m sure there are other English teachers that enjoy the novels they teach in class. They might even consider it a favorite. And I’m sure there are probably a good number of teachers and parents alike that have been persuaded to read something their kids have read after hearing rave reviews. “It was cute,” they might say. But give them a Janet Evankovich or Stephen King and you have yourself a mature adult reader, content to lie in bed with a little book light and skim through the pages until their eyes get too heavy to stay open.
This is where I differ. Give me something from the contemporary adult best-seller list and I’m asleep or, at least, moved on to better things after the first chapter. Give me a young adult novel, on the other hand, and get out of the way. I’m the walk-down-the-hall-reading-and-bump-into-people-because-I-have-to-finish-this-chapter-before-my-next-class-begins type. The sit-on-the-bathroom-floor-while-my-deodorant-dries-and-read-one-more-paragraph-before-I-have-to-leave type. The let’s-put-the-kids-to-bed-early-tonight…no…I-just-want-to-read type. Give me a young adult novel and I’m hooked.
This 180 has even taken me by surprise. In high school and college I was all about the classics. Offer up some Shakespeare, some Chaucer, skip the Melville, please, and replace it with a side of…hmm…maybe some Dickinson, and you had one happy little nerd. Now, I would rather scan the young adult aisles for the newest vampire series.
No, I don’t have Peter Pan Syndrome, nor do I have Freaky Friday Fever; I just love young adult books. They really delve into their characters. They fill their plots with exciting details and leave you hanging at the end of the chapter, wanting more, having to read on just to find out what happens next. Teenagers don’t want to read about how a humorous detective solved the impossible mystery. They want to read about something that could happen to them, or that they’d like to happen to them – something cool, mysterious, maybe a little dangerous. They want to picture themselves in that character’s shoes, imagining that the vampire and werewolf are fighting over them, or that the hot new witch is in love with them.
Probably the biggest factor for me is that they aren’t afraid to be fantastical. They can throw you into a world of vampires, werewolves, dragons, and wizards and you don’t think twice. You accept it as the norm, like it could be happening right now in the house across the street. That’s what I adore about young adult literature, specifically the urban fantasy genre. It’s just so free and spontaneous — not tied down to structure.
Again, I want to clarify for those who might be taking my statements as book bashing. I’m not saying that adult novels are flawed in any way. And it’s not that I haven’t or won’t read something from that category. It’s just that I prefer to not. You might think I’m crazy. You might even laugh. But I really don’t care. If you need me, I’ll be lost in a world of homicidal faeries. Well, right after the witch makes it to her next birthday without turning dark and offing her boyfriend. And that will probably keep me busy until the flesh-eating water horses come out to race. Feel free to join me.




