I read YA books. Some people believe that I should be ashamed of this fact—that it is indicative of a childish mind, and I am “less” because of it.
I read (and write) YA because it tells me more about myself. Teenagers are pushing their boundaries, learning their strengths as they become adults.
I am already an adult, but I still have plenty of weaknesses. Self-doubt and anxiety are my daily companions. I can feel helpless and overwhelmed. I like to see a character grow, find her courage, find love, find herself. I hope to continue to do the same in my life, and this makes Seraphina, Eleanor, and Katsa my kindred spirits, and very dear to my heart.
If YA readers are suspect, what does that say about YA writers? Much as I enjoyed my adolescence, I don’t want to re-live it. I just want to tell a good story. A story that makes someone happy, that makes someone see something in a new light, that gives hope and understanding.
Being an adult is sometimes overrated. Don’t you remember what it felt like to fall in love for the first time? To feel a sense of wonder about the world, and about your place in it? Why wouldn’t you want to go back and re-read The Westing Game?
I read comics, and I watch cartoons, and I will be this way for the rest of my life. I also go to the orchestra frequently, perform technical scientific research, and recycle my newspapers and bottles (sometimes from alcohol!) every week.
I own that I sometimes read for nostalgia or escapism. I also read to learn and improve my mind. I also read to feel.
There is enough room in life for all these things.