A few days ago, I read this. I thought yes, yes, heck yes. I heart YA. Always have. Always will. YA literature is made of awesome sauce!
Then today, I read this.
It left me in tears. I want to rub my eyes out with bleach and forget I ever read it. I'm cringing, knowing there are teachers out there, squeezing all the awesomeness out of that awesome sauce.
What is wrong with YA? Why do some people think the only books worth reading are written for adults, preferably by a long dead author?
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE the classics. And my kids do too. So much that they turned our basement into a Shakespearean theater in order to act out his plays. Make stop-motion videos of Charles Dickens' stories. Beg to learn more about the adventures of Odysseus.
But they also hide in the bathroom to get in just one more chapter of Harry Potter. Write their own cartoon-rendition of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Jump up and down in giddiness when they get to meet a favorite living author in person. Snuggle in bed with me at night, red-faced, to tell of their crush on a fictional character from a favorite book.
How could these experiences be considered inferior just because they do not come from a "classic"?
Mumble and grumble and grrrr and outright blast it all.
A much more intelligent response (compared to my frustrated ramblings that may or may not make sense) can be read here.
I'm off to write more awesome sauce.
And to leave you on a happier note, have you seen this yet?: