A couple of weeks ago, I was in the library collecting Muffin’s holds, and I saw that Adam Silvera had a new book out, and I remembered that he’s on my list of authors-I’ve-never-gotten-around-to-reading, so I picked the title up. I started it later that day, and within the first 20 pages, I had an epiphany, and flipped back to the acknowledgements to check something, and my suspicions were confirmed.
The acknowledgements read like a literal Who’s Who in Modern YA Publishing: “Thanks to Cassandra Clare…Holly Black…Leigh Bardugo…Marie Liu…Angie Thomas…Becky Abertalli…” The accolades finished with the author’s gratitude that he’d “finally written the book 15-year-old me needed.” And that phrase made a big piece of the puzzle click into place.
For a few years now, it’s really confounded me that publication of YA titles — a genre that was basically sidelined for generations, and suddenly exploded about 2010 — is huger than ever, but the average age of the YA reader is, in fact, about 27.
I’ve been trying to figure out why I, as someone who works with kids, would not recommend a good chunk of YA to parents I know. Why 9th and 10th graders are so invested in series that are technically below their reading level. How we went from Stephenie Meyer and Suzanne Collins taking the world by storm to people rolling their eyes and being dismissive of the genre.
The answer hit me with: “…the book 15-year-old me needed.”
I Googled it — Adam Silvera is 34 years old. So, when he was a teenager, the world was a very different place. And yet, the first chapter of his latest title described an early aughts’ adolescent experience. And this, I believe, is precisely why the majority of sales for YA books is among millenials — because they can relate.
I’m not so old that I don’t really remember being in high school. Yes, what life is like for teens right now is quite different from how it was for me; but some universal truths remain. You know you’re not still a little kid, and generally you don’t want to be; but you aren’t at all comfortable with the idea “you’re becoming a man/a woman,” when you feel totally unprepared for anything close to adulthood. You want to be treated with the respect that should come from the parents/teachers claiming to recognize your increased abilities and sense of independence. But you don’t want the fate of everything to be on your shoulders; when push comes to shove, you want the grownups to fix it.
No 17-year-old truly wants to be the Chosen One. This is why The Hunger Games, The Maze Runner, and Divergent didn’t have staying power among the supposed target audience. It’s why the ending to Twilight flopped so hard — what sweet-sixteen fandom wants to see the uncool girl become a super-awesome vampire, only to…get married and have a kid?
Here’s the major problem with 30-and-40-somethings writing YA for their retrospective younger selves: Teens today don’t connect. Adults looking back have the advantage of already having completed their journey, they know who they are and what they want. Very, very few high school seniors are certain in their career choice, their future spouse, hell, even what they’re going to have for lunch.
So, why do publishers keep encouraging authors in a genre aimed at ages 13-19 to write stories with protagonists who act like adults?
I’ve posted in the past about the epidemic of dead, clueless, or just terrible parents in YA. It’s a trope that’s become a vehicle for (lazily) explaining why on paper a character was born after Obama was elected, but can find their way around town without asking Alexa for directions, balance a checkbook (“Non-existent Mom, what’s a checkbook?”), fix a vacuum on the fritz, and cook chicken fettucine alfredo for four.
Is it because we were “latchkey kids”? Did we develop such a resentment towards the people who were supposed to be raising us — and apparently weren’t? — that we decided all our fictional imprints would be Special Snowflakes who just declared, “Well, I may as well save the world, since nobody else is going to!”
Not that there aren’t authors connecting with young readers. Percy Jackson still resonates with today’s tweens. Many graphic novel series aimed at middle schoolers are leaving impressions on older students. In YA and MG there’s been an explosion of authentic diverse stories, from writers of all sorts of ethnic groups and cultural backgrounds, and that’s just awesome.
So the question is obvious: What are newer authors doing that the more established, OG folks aren’t, according to the small bookdragons?
It could be as simple as the notion of writing for one’s past self — addressing a host of baggage that somebody who entered the world in the last decade and a half just won’t share — versus writing for a kid right now.
In the last couple of years, I’ve been reading a lot more MG (and some YA) graphic novels to Muffin — and the newer, the better, in my child’s opinion. So, here’s what I’ve noticed has changed from when White Fang was getting into chapter books:
Love triangles have pretty much vanished. (Thank God.) Maybe romance isn’t even a plot point. Even if parents are dead or absent, there is still some kind of reliable guardian or mentor. The MC’s friends tend to worry about getting caught skipping school, or not surviving the impending danger. Sibling relationships are back, in a big way. There are more disabled, bi-racial, bi-lingual, or queer characters, and it simply is part of who they are — no soapbox, just a natural part of the storytelling. Kids growing up in immigrant or non-traditional families see themselves here.
Because the premise makes sense, the readers are more inclined to believe that a tween or teen took the chance of rushing into danger when a family member or friend went missing, or asked for their help saving the world because of the secret superpower. The stakes are high, but in a way that fits: Many kids would, if they could, want to rescue their loved one from the monster.
It appears the tide of publishing is shifting — from marketing books too advanced for actual youth to works they in fact are enjoying. And this is a good thing! But here’s the next question: What happens to the OG YA authors?
I’ve already noticed many people known for writing “YA” (Veronica Roth immediately springs to mind) attempting to publish adult fiction instead. And…it isn’t going well. Debut adult novels by Holly Black and Cassandra Clare flopped with long-time fans. Leigh Bardugo’s and Marie Liu’s more recent forays into, respectively, dark academia and sci-fi have been met with middling reviews. V.E. Schwab’s attempt at juvenile fantasy was not a hit. Maggie Stiefvater cancelled the final instalment she planned to write in her latest series, because of how lukewarm the reception was.
Maybe it’s not about pushing writers into a different category. Maybe it’s about rebranding what they naturally write.
Maybe this is the perfect time for New Adult to officially become a genre in its own right.
And we can go back to focusing on making YA for, well, adolescents.