The Horror of YA

Whenever I want to get angry at elitist claptrap, I read Canada's newspaper, The Globe and Mail. It never fails to contain some sort of godawful, ill-researched article proclaiming that The Great Unwashed Masses are causing the end of the world, usually written by some white guy scratching his head while he sits in his ivory tower.

The article entitled: "Welcome to a novelist's nightmare: Gothic is in" is no exception.

I can't find a byline anywhere (that would be entirely too logical), but here's what our anonymous author has to say:

“Young adult” has always been a troublesome category. It didn't exist when I was a teenager. We just had to read adult novels – which we did, gluttonously. There was no intermediary stage between children's books – such as the Narnia series – and The Catcher in the Rye... Jane Eyre has been a favourite of teenage girls since it was published. Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls was perfect for me at 14... I don't understand why we need another category. Indeed, to say these classic books are enjoyed by young people is hardly to banish them to a less-than-serious category, it is to acknowledge their greatness.

Yes, that's right. How foolish and backwards, is this so-called "Young adult" category of books. It's a terrible idea. Let's publish FEWER books that would interest young readers, and make teens read For Whom the Bell Tolls - because, as we all know, kids don't know what they really want. They may THINK they want to read about wizards, dragons, or vampires, but they would simply be wrong. They need adults to tell them. And we say they should be reading Hemingway.

There were no YA books when I was growing up, either. I went from kids' books to Tolkien, then on to Anne Rice and Stephen King. I never even liked Anne Rice, but I read it anyway. There just wasn't much else to read. I have always loved Catcher since I first read it at fifteen, but it's a slim little book and can't carry a teen for a good seven or eight years of reading.

When I look at the YA market today, I feel only one thing: A voracious, healthy case of envy. I didn't like Twilight when I read it at thirty-two, but oh, if I had been twelve, I would have been in heaven. If I were twelve I would be bankrupting my parents, endlessly reading the dragon fantasies and horror-gothics and YA historicals and mysteries and whatever else any YA publisher could put out, as fast as they could print it.

All I can remember of being a young adult reader is a constant feeling of lean hunger, a never-quite-full reader's belly, wishing for something I couldn't name, something aimed at girls besides Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, and Sweet Valley High. To suggest that a YA book market is somehow extraneous or unneeded seems utterly out of touch to me.

But then again, the author goes on to bemoan:

I'm sure I wasn't the only novelist to hear about [The Gargoyle's Andrew] Davidson's sudden riches with a painful tightening of the heart – the pain that accompanies the fear that what one is doing is completely out of touch with popular tastes, that one's work is useless and unloved, that even trying to finish the new novel is pointless, that one should think about going to teachers' college, and so on.

Watch it - your jealousy is showing. And if you are actually concerned, as you claim, about being "out of touch with popular tastes", you might want to consider taking a look at what the kids are reading. And, for a change, taking it seriously.

My Chariot Arrives

Sent to my inbox this morning:

Hello Friend,

Your new book has brought a lot of excitement to our editorial staff.
It's certainly this year's best in its genre. You seem to never going to
quit surprising us.
We have made a contract with you and guarantee that the first edition
will total at least 10 million copies.

Enclosed is the approved and edited copy of your amazing book. Thank
you for this paragon of beauty.

Please get in touch with us at your earliest convenience.

Till next time


Ha! You hear that, so-called big-time New York publishers? You missed your chance! Surely a guarantee of AT LEAST TEN MILLION COPIES beats anything New York can offer. They think I am a PARAGON OF BEAUTY. So there.

I am going to ignore the fact that this was sent to my alternate email address, one I've never used for submitting. All I have to do is open the attachment and SUCCESS IS MINE.

Real People Reading Jane Austen

I'm a member of a real life book club at my local library. I've been going for over five years. The reading list is mostly literary, CanLit, and heavy stuff about the Middle East, along with a few classics - it's hit and miss. But hey, it's free. And it's great to spend one evening a month talking to people who are as geeky about books as me, and that's the main reason I go.

None of them, however, are romance readers. Which made this week's discussion of Pride and Prejudice very interesting.

"I fell asleep reading it."
"It took me forever."
"The sentences are too long."
"I don't know what it was supposed to be about."
"Don't these women have anything else to do but sit around and gossip?"
"I don't understand why everyone just sits around and nobody works."
"It helps if you see the movie."
"Kids don't read anymore. In twenty years no one will be reading this book."

Mind you - these are intelligent people. These are readers. I just sort of sat in a stupor, not sure where to start. Pride and Prejudice, to me, is a treasure, a work of exquisite and unutterable genius. It is a page-turner. The sentences are like delicious morsels of food, one after the other, each with such different and beautiful flavor that it is a joy to sit and savor the one you're reading before you go to the next. The two hundred years since it has been written have passed like a fraction of a moment, leaving the precise insights of Jane Austen's unparalleled dissection of human nature as timely and immediate as ever.

And Mr. Darcy. Oh, Mr. Darcy.

I tried, really I did. When someone mentioned that Jane was "too perfect" to be a real character, I tried to point out that Jane is Austen showing what society sees as a real, true, perfect woman - and asking you what you think, next to the "imperfect" Lizzie. You think she's boring? Maybe it's Austen saying that society's version of the ideal is a little bit cardboard. She knows, people.

I got dead silence for that.

Romance readers and writers adore P&P almost universally. I was a jarred by a conversation that could treat such an obvious classic so carelessly, and I wished heartily for a round table of true romance lovers, so we could really talk about this book. The wonder of it.

It was mentioned, near the end, that much of the romance genre springs from P&P. And the inevitable cliche was mentioned: "You know, you can take classes on how to write romances, and they tell you the formula. Your hero and heroine have to hate each other on sight, and they have to kiss by chapter three, and all that." Ha, they had a hearty chuckle, and one woman rolled her eyes. Ye gods. I could have yelled at them all, but what was the point?

I'll keep going, I guess, if only because one can be equally scathing to any book on the list, and we are. (God, there are some horrible CanLit books out there - they make my eyes bleed.) But it made me realize that I've changed over the last five years. My heart really is in the romance business, and the people who think the same speak my language. Without my fellow romance lovers, I'd be adrift on an island of Austen-haters, wondering if I was crazy.

I'm not crazy. I just love Mr. Darcy, that's all.

The Delete Button

In an effort to spend less time online, I've done a ruthless edit of my blogroll.

How To Get Deleted From Abby's Blogroll

1. Talk too much about your release. Don't get me wrong, I want to hear about it. I'm happy for you, and I'll read the thing if it's my cup of tea, but posts about how you were in the shower when you thought up your hero and which 50 actresses could be cast in the movie are a bit much.

2. Talk too much about your friends' releases. If you haven't read them yourself, why should I?

3. Sound smug. I don't know where this came from, but my tolerance for smugness has lately been reduced to exactly zero. I'm sure you're great. I'm sure your kids are unbearably cute. I'm sure it's really, really hard being you. I'm sure your successes are well deserved.

4. If you're still talking about Nationals. If I had to hear about it for three weeks leading up (I'm packing! I have so many shoes!) and I'm still seeing pictures of you with margaritas a month later, it's too much.

5. Keep bitching about the writing business. I can think of two published writers, off the top of my head, I've deleted for this one. "This business is so hard. I'll just painfully slog through the latest disaster of a manuscript. I keep reading books I hate. I don't know why these people are published." Et cetera. If you hate writing that much, try working for a living. WalMart is always hiring.

6. Post one-line links all the time. When you type "Check this out" or "This is interesting" with a hyperlink, I don't follow it, ever.

Blogging is hard, and everyone does it differently. I've probably come off more than one blogroll myself, likely for the cardinal sin of Irregular And Sometimes Infrequent Posting, which is seen as an unbreakable rule. (Sherry Thomas is my blogging inspiration here.) Ah, well - I break it. And lots of people with happy readers break the rules above. That's what the Internet is for - all of us to be ourselves, even to the point of annoying each other.

Abby

Back

Well, the Olympics are over. Whew. I still don't know exactly what handball is, or why tae kwon do seems to consist entirely of people bouncing on the balls of their feet, but there you go. I probably learned something along the way.

Now I get to do the important stuff - like find out for myself what the big to-do over Sherry Thomas is about, catch up on Dear Author posts, and write a few chapters of my own between readings of Liz Carlyle's entire backlist. And do some laundry and charge my iPod and see some actual sunshine before the summer is over.

Right. Chapters. Will get on that.

Where's the iced tea?

Back in 10

I guess I should account for myself, shouldn't I?

Well, I work in TV. And right now the Olympics are on. In China. Which is 12 hours ahead of my Eastern time zone. Which means everything is LIVE in the middle of the night.

Guess when all the TV people are working?

My wit, always faulty, has completely deserted me. My writing muse is gone. Along with my memory, my focus, and my concentration most of the time. Your brain thinks it's invincible, until your body is exhausted. Suddenly you're weak.

I can barely even read. Believe me, that is torture.

There are some fun bits, of course, and it'll be over someday. Then I'll get a good sleep and wake up ready to bore you guys about whatever again. In the meantime, I dream of sleep. I love it. I would marry it. And no, I do not make sense.

Go read some good books for me. Have some fun, go to the movies, and enjoy the Olympics on TV. A lot of people are working hard, in the middle of the night, to bring you those broadcasts, and they're really good. Make some popcorn and watch with your kids. Enjoy it.

G'night,
Abby

Summer of the Superhero

I love superheroes. To me, superhero or comic book movies are "fluff, about nothing" the same way romance novels are "fluff, about nothing." Which is to say, they ain't.

What does a superhero do for us? He shows us what's possible, what we can do. He shows us what it means to be extraordinary, in the way we all long to be extraordinary. He shows us, too, the cost of uniqueness, the loneliness, the exclusion from society. He shows us what it means to be truly different, in a way that the rest of the world will never understand.

Most of all, he makes choices: Use my power for good, or for evil? Tell the truth about my identity, or tell a lie? Keep my power and be an outcast, or excise it and try to become normal? Control my power, or have it control me? Jump Christian Bale immediately, or wait long enough for him to take a breath and say "Hey, d'you wanna -" (OK, that last choice was me. Sorry.)

The Spiderman movies have lots of fans, but Spiderman is not for me. Peter Parker is not smart, rich, strong, or funny. He's not even conflicted or complex. He is, in short, a boy.

But the superhero movies of the summer of '08 are a feast for a girl like me. Not only do we get superheroes, but all of them are grown men. It makes life interesting.



Iron Man

The good: An actual smart hero - not just a hero we're told is smart, but one who is actually shown as smart. Brilliant, in fact. And cool.

Casting of Robert Downey, Jr - he's no pretty-boy actor, and he has a lot of edge to him. And he's funny. And his voice is great. And he was obviously working out big-time, which is nice. And he can deliver a zinging line with the best of them.

A good script - that actually sort of made sense (I'm looking at you, Transformers), was not sappy or stupid (I'm looking at you again), used all the plot points it introduced without dropping them (ahem, again) and ended on a quirky, upbeat note.



The bad: Gwyneth Paltrow. Ugh. What were they thinking? Could they not at least cast someone with an iota of sex appeal?

Gwyneth Paltrow's character, Pepper Potts - one place these movies always fall down is in the heroine roles. They can't help it - they're man-movies, and these are women imagined by men. And so we have to deal with characters like Pepper Potts, though she's hardly the worst of them (I'm looking at you, Spiderman, and [sniff] you, Batman). Actually Pepper could have been better with a brisk rewrite, preferably by a woman. She wasn't too far off the mark, but she wasn't there, either.

The villain - not bad, but see below for better.



The Incredible Hulk

The good: Again, the casting. What is the deal with Edward Norton? Why is he so fascinating? 'Cos, he is. I'm not alone here either, since he gets chicks like Jessica Biel and Salma Hayek. He has some kind of mojo going on.

Norton's Bruce Banner has one goal: To get rid of the freakishness inside him. Unlike Iron Man's gleeful enjoyment of power, Banner is unwilling and hates what he's become. He doesn't make peace with it, really. The second movie of the summer to feature my favourite kind of hero - the brilliantly smart one. Norton is great, of course. He always is.

The heroine - I didn't think I would, but I really liked Liv Tyler in this. She had no chemistry with Norton (the only woman, I suppose, who can resist the mojo), but the story didn't force it on them. She was sweet, and smart, and really feminine. She's really beautiful, too. She should make more movies.

The villain - this movie is a lesson in how to write a villain. Give him a clear goal, that is in opposition to the hero's. Make the achievement of his every goal a setback to the hero. Build his character arc, scene by scene, the same way you do the hero's, until an irresistible force meets an immovable object in the climax. And if you can, cast Tim Roth. He rocks.



The Bad: Hulk's bangs. His purple pants. His weird, squeezed face. His spaced-out teeth. Hulk, when you look at him, is really sort of ridiculous. Movie makers need to put some effort into making him scary. The first scene Hulk appears, which is mostly in the dark, they succeed. The rest of the time - wtf? The LOTR movies were years ago - we can do better animation than this. Surely?

And they never do succeed in answering the Pants Conundrum, the mysterious quirk of physics that makes Hulk's pants grow when he does. Though this is somewhat merciful, as nobody wants to see (or animate) a giant Hulk wang waving over New York City.


Hellboy

The good: The visuals here are - I don't even know what to say. They haven't made words to describe the visuals here. Whoever came up with these, I hope I never get a glimpse inside their head.

That thing in the old-style scuba suit - what was that thing? It was really witty, whatever it was. I laughed at every line it said, and its little flapping valves when it talked.
I've never seen a story in which an indescribable, inexplicable thing was so funny. Actually, I laughed a lot in this movie, which was weird.

The heroine is half decent, too.

The bad: Hellboy himself is, well, weird. Even if you like him, you have to admit he's deeply weird. I don't really get the romance, but they are kinda cute together. I suppose.

And then, we come to the master class.



I admit it unashamedly: I am a huge Batman fan. Batman Begins was the best thing to happen since sliced bread. The Dark Knight is better.

I'm not going to go into any detail here, since the movie only opened yesterday and I don't want to spoil it for anyone. All I'll say is this: This film is brilliant, fast-paced, gripping, thoughtful, philosophical, and fascinating. It is also - if you didn't happen to catch the title - relentlessly dark. I like dark. I write dark. This movie is somewhat disturbing, and scary, and if you've seen Heath Ledger's Joker, you've seen a glimpse of just how dark it goes. Trust me, it goes darker.

The only negative I can mention - the same as Batman Begins - is the heroine. I won't say more. Just - please, guys, next time out give Batman a better heroine. That's two strikes. Do better next time, K? Thanks.

Other than that, don't change your casting, which is perfectly fine, fine, fine:



And that is all.

Happy moviegoing,
Abby