Forgive my refusal to engage in complete sentences today. Scattershot list of things inspiring today’s post:
1. Kerfuffle on Twitter and Blogosphere about darkness in YA (I’m not even going to link to it) and a call for ratings on books (again… google yourself if you want such silliness).
2. Being too tired to read much after writing so hard.
3. Fifty Shades of Grey and a recent Clive Cussler novel dominate the NYT bestseller lists this week.
If there’s such a thing as emotional gravity, it’s the invisible force that continually pulls humans back down to their natural resting state of melancholy. Life is sad, man.
5. A friend’s recent comment that she reads for “hope.”
6. Kristen Stewart’s recent rant about Twilight, criticism, and fame in Vanity Fair.
If you are wondering where I am going with all of this… so am I. If I were Chuck Wendig, I’d thrown in a lot of expletives here. But I’m not so I’ll go for a few semi-coherent thoughts.
The YA that I read (and write) is both weighty and hopeful. I don’t read much wish-fulfillment YA (like Twilight) because it makes me feel yucky the way glossy fashion mags make me feel yucky. It makes me feel that I am insufficient and my life is not worth much. I don’t read much literary adult fiction because there’s so much soul-breaking and so little hope. I don’t read mass market adult fiction because it’s dumb.
I don’t throw stones at reading for escape. I do that too, but I insist that the world I escape to be fully-realized, compelling, and touch me in some meaningful way. I don’t mind if it is brutal or “dark” (gasp), but I like it best when there’s hope. I want to emerge thinking that I am sufficient to the challenges of life.
So there you go… ramble on!