Saturday, October 4, 2014

Time for a bit of honesty

I think I'm tired of posting about The Exemeus. The monotony of writing the sequel, blogging about the sequel, and twittering about the sequel is giving me a headache. So I'm going to talk about something else. Starting today.

So the other day, the Clark Kent version of myself was sitting down for lunch and one of my fellow teachers came up to me. He knew I had majored in Physics so he started tossing out the names of Physics Superstars-- if there is such a thing-- that he had on his shelf. That's when I realized, I hadn't read a physics book in my entire life.  I was more likely to know the roster of the 1973 world cup winning team than I was to know a leading physicist.

All I read is YA. As a kid I would sneak and read my mother's romance books, but as an adult I only read young adult books. And I had to ask myself why? I asked myself this question again when a slate review post ( you can read it here). Although, I disagree entirely, I had to wonder why is YA the only thing that I read?

The answer is simple: Hope.

Even in the worst YA books the character still has a glimmer of hope that I think has been kicked out of us as adults. Hope that there is a happy ending. Hope that the guy will transform into the prince charming. Hope that the 16 year old can make a difference in a world so bleak.

My 31st birthday is coming up this month and I'm starting to lose faith in people, in dreams, and in the happily ever after.

YA, if only for a moment, gives me that faith, that belief, that hope back. The hope that love can conquer all-- the faith that love even still exists.

Loving YA


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