Who knew that after my two years of intense 15-children’s-books-a-week-degree I would be tired of that world and it’s conventions. Now don’t get in a tizzy. I am still stoked on it, but give a lady a break. Let the girl who loves Gabriel Garcia, Danielewski, and Wolfe revel in some adult fiction for two weeks.
So far I have plummeted through Clark’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell (no small feat in itself), a smattering of Anne Sexton’s poetry, and Gruen’s Water for Elephants. And I will proudly say ‘I LOVE adult books!’ It has been refreshing because, let’s go on and admit it, adult authors have a much wider world to work with. It is not that I don’t think children and young adult authors are not discussing important things and breaking down conventions and whatnot but there is only so far you can go and still get published. There is still the ‘over their head’ language and concepts as well as editing of violence and sex. There is still relentless optimism and safety even in the most intense YA. These things are not necessarily bad but they are the things that allow me to find adult books as a different (and therefore refreshing) experience.
In fact, how are us child lit peeps supposed to interrogate these divisions without being informed by both sides?