It’s February aka Love Month and to celebrate I’m going to bringing you a slew of bookish love posts.
What I love about Young Adult books.
As an adult who reads YA almost exclusively I feel as if my reading choices can be something I need to defend. From a raised eyebrow from a bookstore clerk to the fact all my favourite authors seem to get booked on ‘school days’ for writing festivals. But I’ve learnt to stand proudly in the children’s section and not pretend I’m shopping for somebody else.
Because I love YA.
After going close to ten years without picking up a fiction book, young adult got me reading again. And reading obsessively. (*waves at Twilight* I’m not ashamed.) I love the immediacy of the writing, no wasted pages, nothing to slog through. I love the calibre of the writing. I love diving back into the feelings of being a teenager again: all the incredible firsts. I love the love. And I love the heartbreak.
I love the authors who don’t talk down to their readers or try to dismiss the teenage experience.
Being a teenager is the most heightened, beautiful, intense and horrifying time of your life. As much as I’m thankful it’s over (and oh boy am I) I know that I’ll never feel that sheer invincibility again. Until I pick up a young adult book.
There is so much truth to be found in the pages of a thoughtful book. I’ve seen myself at sixteen, I’ve seen myself now. And I’ve discovered so many other people. Some say you’ll find more hope in a young adult book, and you might do, but they all don’t have to be hopeful as long as they’re truthful.
I’m addicted to the delicious, heady rush I get from young adult books. Like the convergence of butterflies when that certain someone would suddenly appear.
So, I love you, YA. I love you, I do.