From “It’s Time” by Dorothy Snarker:

You know, every time I write passionately about pop culture, someone will inevitably tell me to lighten up. It’s fiction, idiot. It’s make believe, dumbass. It’s not real, loser. Get a life! This is always terribly edifying. I’m so glad someone finally let me know.

Aside from wondering why these people are on a pop culture site in the first place since they’re clearly so busy doing important things with their lives like collecting unicorn tears to cure global drought, I always want to ask if they think art – even popular art – happens in a vacuum. Sure, we use it to entertain. But we also use it to illuminate, to educate, to elucidate, to fascinate. At its best it’s not just a mirror to reflect our current reality, but a powerful looking glass which we can travel through to imagine a world exactly how we want it.

And popular art, pop culture, matters exactly because of its popularity. It’s our mass opiate, but with more than just the ability to get us high. It came make us think. It can help change who we are.

So here’s to art, in all its forms, the high brow and the low brow. The popular and obscure. The message filled and even mindless. May we never stop demanding it be better. May we always look to it to show us who we are, and who we’d like to be.

Great advice for NaNo-ers from Tahereh Mafi, author of one of the most anticipated YA debuts of the year (and former commenter on this very blog!): “Don’t be afraid to write a bad book.”

take a risk. be open to writing a book that will undoubtedly embarrass you in a few years. go nuts with the adverbs and scatter plot holes everywhere and make your characters say things like i know we just met, but do you believe in destiny? and then he kissed my mouth and i breathed on his face and hugged him goodnight romantically. really. go ahead and fall in love with your hero for no reason except that he is the hero and, well, you made him, so there’s obviously no need to flesh out his character. dispense with the motivations and the proper pacing and give your protag a crazy name and a plethora of ridiculous backstories. have every near-catastrophic event solved by coincidence and magical powers that show up only when it’s most convenient, and then kill everyone off at the end because it’s the only way you know how to finish the book. write the story that’s really nothing more than a thinly-veiled effort at fictionalizing what otherwise would’ve been your autobiography.

really.

but whatever you do, don’t be afraid.

Newly agented (but always fabulous) S.E. Sinkhorn gives writers permission to be proud of themselves:

There’s this weird pressure on writers (and other artists) where we’re not supposed to appreciate or take pride in our own work. Doing so makes us, like, JERKS or something. I feel like I’m constantly wavering between not quite believing that people think I’m actually publishable and reading my stuff from months past and going, “Woah, wait, *I* wrote that? But it’s good!”

And rounding out this list of fantastic advice and insight, the ever-amazing Natalie Whipple talks very honestly about how money can mess with art:

When I was a noob, I used to say all the time that I wouldn’t care about the money. That I’d be happy with anything as long as I got to share my work. It was…humbling to find myself a liar when things came down to it. I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching to understand my reactions and to discover how to change them.

The more I search, the more I learn that getting back to the basics always helps me. Writing what I love, regardless of market or money or genre. Improving what I write the best I can. Loving what I write and where I’m at. Treating it all like a journey with friends instead of a competition. Writing for the sake of writing. Sharing with joy instead of dread. All that good, pure stuff.

The money doesn’t have to mess with you. It might be hard to get past at first, but it’s possible and so much better when you do. Your work is valuable and worthwhile, no matter what the price tag ends up being.

Please note: My “Reading Reflections” are not reviews. They are simply my thoughts in response to certain passages.

…

Andy and I happened to be in the car when I finished Daughter of Smoke and Bone. After reading the last words, I closed the cover, took a deep breath, turned to him with tears in my eyes, and said, “This book devastated me.”

He laughed.

But it’s true! Karou and Akiva (and Brimstone — oh, Brimstone!) broke my freaking heart. Laini Taylor is so talented and so, so cruel.

I knew from Lips Touch that Laini was a masterful writer, but her elegant, unpretentious prose still took me by surprise. Took me on a journey. Made me tingly with emotion. Made me green with envy.

(Bottom line: I would pretty much murder someone to write as well as Laini does.)

So these “Reading Reflections” are going to be fairly light on the Reflections. They’re basically just the passages I swooned over. Oh, and while the US cover is fine, I used the UK cover for this post because I think it’s positively gorgeous.

Karou wished she could be the kind of girl who was complete unto herself, comfortable in solitude, serene. But she wasn’t. She was lonely, and she feared the missingness within her as if it might expand and… cancel her. She craved a presence beside her, solid. Fingertips light at the nape of her neck and a voice meeting hers in the dark. Someone who would wait with an umbrella to walk her home in the rain, and smile like sunshine when he saw her coming. Who would dance with her on her balcony, keep his promises and know her secrets, and make a tiny world wherever he was, with just her and his arms and his whisper and her trust. (70-71)

Swoooooooon. We’ve all felt that longing, haven’t we?

(Just in case that passage gives you the wrong impression: Karou is an extremely strong heroine, in every way. But she’s human too, with all the complex emotions and desires that go along with that.)

“Have you ever asked yourself, do monster make war, or does war make monsters?” (123)

A good question indeed. One that many individuals (and societies) throughout history probably should have asked themselves. One that we still need to be asking.

“There are things bigger than any wish.”
“Like what?”
“Most things that matter.” (144)

“I hope, child, but I don’t wish. There’s a difference.”

She turned this over in her mind, thinking that if she could come up with the difference, it might impress him. Something occurred to her, and she struggled to put it into words. “Because hope comes from in you, and wishes are just magic.”

“Wishes are false. Hope is true. Hope makes its own magic.” (144-145)

“Hope can be a powerful force. Maybe there’s no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic.” (290)

One of the central themes in this book was magic, wishing, and hope — the distinctions and the overlaps between those three. Many of us use those terms interchangeably (magic and wishes; wishes and hope) but I think Laini really teases out the nuances of the words.

As a reader and writer, I’ve always thought that nuances are what make language so lovely. And powerful.

“Love is a luxury.”
“No. Love is an element.”
An element. Like air to breathe, earth to stand on. (365)

Siiiigh. That is some serious crack to romantics like me.

There was almost always something to take delight in, if you were trying. But this was different. It couldn’t be contained. She sometimes imagined it streaming out of her like light.

Happiness. It was the place where passion, with all its dazzle and drumbeat, met something softer: homecoming and safety and pure sunbeam comfort. It was all those things, intertwined with the heat and the thrill, and it was as bright within her as a swallowed star. (399)

First, I like the idea that there’s always something to be happy about. Not so much in the silver lining sense, but more like… just having a bright outlook. Appreciating the small pleasures in life instead of only seeking or being satisfied with the big ones.

Second, I know that kind of happiness, and I feel lucky to be able to say that.

Every October, a conglomerate of Cincinnati libraries, bookstores, and universities puts on Books by the Banks, a convention for readers and writers to come together and discuss their favorite thing: books.

This year I went with Stephanie and Sarah, and between the 3 of us, we attended 4 different panels. The first was with Chris Bohjalian, who had a smooth patter of stories and jokes. He made me laugh with his anecdotes, then cry (almost) with his poignant reading.

The second panel featured Brock Clarke and Paula McLain, who were more off-the-cuff, and who gamely tried to connect despite their books (and their personalities) seeming quite different. I enjoyed Brock’s sarcasm and self-deprecating humor, as well as Paula’s girlish enthusiasm and passionate ramblings.

Then, for the final panel of the day, Steph and Sarah went to see a group of YA authors we like (discussing whether teen lit is “too dark”) while I went to see Dennis Lehane.

You probably know Dennis’s work, even if you think you don’t. He wrote Mystic River, Shutter Island, and Gone Baby Gone — all critically acclaimed films now. In fairness, I’ve never read his work either, but when I was a senior in college, he came as the English Department’s end-of-year speaker, and I had to miss it (as I did every year) for my dance show. Everyone said he was great, though, so I was determined to see him this time around. And I am so, so glad I did.

Earlier in the day, I had passed Dennis at his booth, signing books, playing Scrabble on his iPhone, and generally looking kind of tired. Assuming that this was part of a grueling promotional tour, I sympathized, but to be honest, I also worried that he might flame out on the panel.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

For the first few minutes he did say “um” a lot, but once he warmed up, his body and his words filled with Writerliness. You could almost see the change, and you could certainly hear and feel it. He read us part of his new work, which was gritty and clever, and then he took questions from the audience. Below, paraphrased, is some of what he shared with us.

• “As a writer, it’s important to slam doors in your own face. It forces you to create windows.”
• He likes to write in the morning, “before the world is too much with me,” when he’s still a little bit in the dream state. The older he gets, the more he needs a non-modern feel to his environment (like an old Underwood typewriter he keeps nearby). Reassuringly, he also said he’s gotten a lot more disciplined over the years — in part due to having a family and thus more responsibility, less time to himself.
• “Maybe you’re just not a writer. This isn’t a cruel thing to say; it’s a reality.”
• Growing up, all he wanted was to be a baseball player. He worked 5 times as hard as everyone else, he said, even practicing in the dead night in February, causing the loss of a few teeth. But no matter what he did, no matter how bad he wanted it, he didn’t have the athletic ability. Eventually he came to peace with that, and he found something else.
• He told us the genesis of Shutter Island, which I found fascinating. It involves the Patriot Act, a drunken night out with friends, and the unexpected hospitalization of his mother.
• “I’m just a student for the rest of my life.”
• He doesn’t worry about being literary or commercial. He’s not trying to please anybody — though of course he hopes to please readers. Above all he writes characters. He wants to take you on their journey. And he wants to keep getting better.

I enjoyed Dennis’s talk so much that I seriously considered asking him if he wanted to have dinner with me (and Andy, who I thought would really like him). Instead I settled for getting him to sign a book and take a picture.

That night I went home feeling rejuvenated, infused with literary energy and learnings. Even writing this recap has ignited a kind of spark in me. All I can say is, if you have the chance to go to this event or anything like it — maybe an author reading at your local bookstore — do it.

First, a big thanks to Erin, who sent me the link that served as the seed for this post.

Second, here’s my take on what “New Adult” even means.

Third, here we go.

…

The Young Adult Review Network asks: “Where are all the young adults?”

When is the last time you read a YA book with a 25-year-old protagonist?

An easy solution to this dilemma, you may say, is to walk towards the adult section of any library or bookstore. But why should I? The YA writing style is noticeably different than that of an adult novel. I do not know exactly what causes them to diverge – though I am in a constant quest for an answer – but there seems to be a sort of whimsical, hopeful, non-nostalgic element to YA. I am still a “young” adult.  I do not want to reflect, I want to react.

In other words: There are some readers who want an “in between” genre. Something after YA but before adult fiction. Something to bridge the gap between John Green and Jonathan Franzen.

(Actually, that was a big part of my inspiration in writing Twenty-Somewhere. To explore the stage of life that follows Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants but precedes Sex and the City.)

Agent Sarah LaPolla calls it “Putting the A in YA”:

[This brings] me to “New Adult,” a sub-genre of fiction trying semi-hard to exist in the post-YA, pre-adult marketplace for those between the ages of 18 and 25. I am all for this. The college experience, figuring out grad school, jobs, not living off your parents, etc. are hard to deal with and they are certainly not “adult” concerns.  They deserve their own literature. So why hasn’t it caught on yet?

Good question. LaPolla offers a couple theories on why New Adult is not a marketable genre right now, and why it won’t be for “at least another ten years.” Her first reason: time. There simply hasn’t been enough time for this to catch on. Heck, YA literature is still in its growth spurt.

I totally agree with that. It’s her second reason that I take issue with.

With New Adult, there is no universal experience. Within the genre, there are too many niche markets to consider, which makes it that much harder to place. Not everyone goes to college or makes the same choices when entering adulthood. Even within the group who goes to college, the experiences differ in ways that are much more polarizing than going to different high schools. No matter what kind of high school you went to, we were all forced to take the same general courses or participate in the same extracurricular activities.

Er, I find that to be a bit contradictory. Because the term “universal experience” comes from the idea that in spite of the many different paths we can take, there are certain core things we all have to deal with and go through. So the concept, as I understand it, depends on those different paths. Otherwise everything in life would be universal, right?

In YA lit, some teenagers come from wealth while others are in gangs. Some do drugs while others attend church. Some fight vampires while others fall in love with zombies. But regardless of their circumstances, they all grapple with the same kinds of things. Following or challenging authority, acting on or refusing romantic and sexual desires, discovering their own goals independent from parents or teachers.

And how is that any different from the universal experiences we could be exploring in New Adult lit?

Some twenty-somethings go to college while others go to war. Some stay virgins while others get married and have children. Some work two jobs while others live off their parents. But regardless of their circumstances, they all grapple with the same kinds of things. Having to make, find or redefine “home,” learning how to balance their personal and professional lives, fulfilling or rejecting the expectation to become a “productive member of society” (whatever that means).

In my opinion, there are a whole set of universal experiences and emotions at any developmental stage, and the point of literature is to explore and share the many interations of that. To show the common humanity between people, no matter how different or similar they may seem.

So again, LaPolla is probably right that it’s going to be a while before New Adult lit gets its own shelf at your local bookstore. But I think that it should get that shelf, someday. Because the twenties are a unique life-stage in modern society, and there are people who want to read and write about it. I’m one of them.

…

If you would like to read some of the “New Adult” lit that’s available now, there are some recommendations here and here.