When someone recommends a book, I immediately ask, “is it for grown-ups? Because I don’t read those.” Followed by, “Does it have dragons?” -Catherine Gilbert Murdock, author of Dairy Queen
My new life mantra. I am unafraid. I embrace the spastic and bipolar perpetuity of ages 12 to 18. No, I feed it. Nah nah boo boo, bitches.
Look past the Barnes and Noble marketing strategy, folks. Do not stare directly into the sparkles of brooding vampires. Young Adult Literature is where it’s at. (Mind you, B&N does not shy from the dark places. They have a gift floor, these days. You actually have to seek out the books. Any concern for the well-being of their soul evaporated a long time ago. Probably with the development of the Nook kiosk. But I digress…)
Why YA you ask? Instead of looking for or fearing the next “great American novel” or “page-turner” as deemed by the NY Times or NPR or Bob the Builder, I look for colored shelves. For angst resolved with optimism. Or vice versa. And dammit, I look for witches.
Life post-30 toes the darkness. Vivé! Forever young.