Raw

I've been reading a lot of what would be considered 'young adult' fiction lately. This rather arbitrary division of fiction bothers me a little bit, but that's not what I want to write about right now. I want to write a little bit about why I've been loving these books. Now, I should take a moment here to note that yes, there is a lot of garbage out there in the world of YA fiction; however, this problem is not unique to YA fiction, it is a fault of fiction in general. I mean, seriously, look in any fiction section and you are bound to find garbage. Goodness knows I've had to read some of it. So, I'm not saying that this is applicable to all YA literature any more than my praise of other books is applicable to all books that fall in that category. 

My particular reason for loving these books lately can be summed up in one word: rawness. I was having a conversation with Sally the other week about YA fiction and I told her that one of the reasons that books in this category are often so wonderful is that they don't shy away from that sensation that you have when you're a teenager that everything is so important. Every moment, every experience, every inconsequential detail is freighted with significance. At least, I know that's how it felt when I was a teenager. Reading back through some of my journals can be downright painful and leave me wondering how anyone managed to put up with me during those years. Everything is intense when you are a teenager and emotions run close to the surface. As a teen this was what drew me to books. It made me feel less alone.

At some point I tried to stop having my emotions so near the surface. Intensity began to scare me. So I tried to stop. For a long time I made a concerted effort to just not feel much of anything. (This, by the way, is not healthy.) But lately I've been wondering why as adults we shy away from this kind of rawness. What is it that makes us think that it is better to stop feeling deeply? Why do we stop letting little things matter? I'm not saying everything should be as intense as it is as a teenager (remember, my journals from then do make me cringe now), but maybe rawness is not a bad thing. In fact, maybe we should embrace it a bit more. I've been thinking about this and realized that this is exactly the quality that draws me to my favourite authors. Yes, I have books I love because they are beautiful or interesting works of art. Yes, there are authors I love because they simply tell a good story. But the ones that I return to over and over again are characterized by the same rawness I'm finding in the YA books I've been reading lately. Finding significance in things. Allowing your heart to be open. This is dangerous, I've been discovering, but it is also where the potential for beauty lies. Fully experiencing life: this is what I find in Sylvia Plath and Anne Michaels, John Steffler and Michael Ondaatje, Stuart McLean and Alexander MacLeod. It's also what I find in Ann Brashares and Stephen Chbosky, Sarah Dessen and Meg Cabot. And this, I'm discovering, is the best way to live.

By the way, if you are ever wondering what I'm reading, you can check out my relatively new tumblog (a word I despise by the way) At the gates of a new city. This is where I'm chronicling the passages that strike me in the books I'm reading at any given moment. It's more for my own personal record than anything, but you're welcome to check it out for inspiration or to build a reading list for yourself.