YA Verse Novels

A recent trend in young adult literature is writing novels in verse--as series of poems. As any reader of poetry would tell you, most books of poetry tell stories. They at least pick up repetitive imagery and setting, often character as well, so this distinction of "novel in verse" seems a little bemusing, strange. For me though, it seems like a definite marketing tool, and obviously guarantees a wider readership for books of poems, if they can be targeted as teen novels.

However, the experience of reading a book of poetry and a traditional novel are very different, and this is not really reflected by the YA marketing. Poetry is not prose, it does not intend to give a wide-angle, epic lens (except, obviously, in the case of epic poetry, but even in that case, the poetry is broken up by seemingly random ekphrases and tangential anecdotes, so the argument still somewhat applies). In any case, modern poetry, as a rule, facilitates image, emotion, and specificity, much more than plot and exposition.

While reading Make Lemonade, a novel in verse by Virginia Euwer Wolff, I was not given the color of the characters' hair, or the details of their city--but I knew exactly what the floor in Jolly's apartment looked like, or the way the television had no vertical hold--I could absolutely picture the silhouette of Jeremy staring into the pot where his lemon tree would grow.

Poetry has more gaps than prose, it demands more of the reader. So, what does this mean for the YA reader, and the marketing of novels in verse? Poetry definitely carries a stigma in middle and high school--either it is associated with "boring" literature classes or mocked as something only "emo kids" write. There is very little appreciation for poetry as a craft, for the things poetry can achieve that prose cannot, taught in school. Besides Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, and some British Romantics, teens pretty much have to come across poetry of their own accord.

This is both the opportunity and the downfall of these "verse novels"--as far as I can tell. Yes, they have a lot of stigmas to overcome, just by being poetry, but they are also a fairly accessible introduction to poetry itself. Generally featuring straightforward language and relatable characters and scenarios, perhaps they will induct younger readers into the demands of reading poetry. Even facilitate a love of the writing?

One can hope, at least.

The Wide World of YA Lit

What am I learning about Young Adult Literature?

Perhaps that during all those years I wanted to prove to people how intelligent I was by reading classic literature, I missed a lot of gems. Of course, I read a good deal of YA lit, good as well as bad, but I always felt a sort of shame in getting books from the "kid" section of the library. I shouldn't have.

Although I moved almost entirely away from YA books by the time I was fourteen, now, in this brief revisiting, I am reminded vividly of how mixed I was, how mixed up everyone was, in middle school. That was when I most needed these "young adult" books--these finding yourself stories marketed for teenagers. For when I was in sixth grade and I heard one girl call another one a "fat whore" in the locker room. For when my friends and I were testing out the limits of our profane vocabularies amongst ourselves, for when we were discussing shaving our legs for the first times.

Young Adult Lit may be a marketing tool for books, and maybe that's okay. Because these books have an audience, and need all the marketing help they can get to find it. I think I am realizing how much of who I am was established when I was in middle school (although I know many girls still read YA lit into high school and it serves them well). But reading about a wider world probably encouraged me to seek such a place--theoretically, it makes sense that it would.

The best YA books seem to be stories that had to be told, and just happen to be happening to young people. That's how I felt when I read Sarah Dessen's Someone Like You for the first time, or Francesca Lia Block's books, or even Tamora Pierce's Alanna fantasy novels. They were about teenage pregnancy, AIDS, knighthood, but they were valid, they were reassuring. They were about important stories to me, as much as the Odyssey was an important story, or Romeo and Juliet. I think the idea that people read books for reassurance that they are not alone is true of all literature, but most especially of YA lit.

It's so important, when you're thirteen and confused as all get out about everything in the world, to read something that validates how "not alone" you are. To empathize with a character, to see an internal journey that belongs to someone else, yet is not so far removed from your own. This is not to say that children's books, or adult books, or "classics" can't fill this void--they absolutely can. But it is to validate YA lit, and the specific purpose it serves. It can be so easy to trivialize "kid" things, to look down on transitions one has already made. But the best writers of YA lit seem to eternally live within those transitions, and simultaneously reassure that yes, you can make it through to the other side.

Lesbians? Oh no!!

So, for the past week or so in kidlit, we've been reading this really wonderful novel, Finding H.F. by Julia Watts. Unfortunately for you, it went out of print last year, and it is very difficult to get your hands on--too bad, as it is one of the funniest books (young adult or otherwise) that I've ever read. It is set in (very) small town Kentucky, and the protagonist is a girl named Heavenly Faith--who's a lesbian. The book deals with her coming to terms with herself, realizing how big the world is, taking charge of her own life, having first sexual experiences, and flashing a van full of nuns. Your standard bildungsroman, if you will.



But the issue I'm to address is one of having lesbian (or gay) protagonists in young adult literature, especially in books which deal explicitly with understanding their sexuality, not just as characters who have already become comfortable with it.



I think that these types of books are important, and not in the narrow way one might expect (like when H.F.'s girlfriend's parents leave out "the lesbian little house on the prairie" for her to read, as a hint about what they suspect). Yes, I can imagine a well-written and honest book, like H.F., would be a fantastic thing to stumble across as a teenager struggling with questions about sexuality. But I remember, when I was in seventh grade, getting an anthology of short stories out of the young adult section of the Birmingham Public Library because there was a really colorful cover, and some of my favorite authors were in it. The book was Am I Blue? an anthology of stories dealing with LGBT issues, intended for teens. I remember taking it home and being astonished that something like that was out in the open for anyone to check out. I was embarrassed and fascinated.



I am not overly sheltered. I attended an incredibly liberal fine arts high school, and I have witnessed my fair share of real-life coming out struggles. But in a world where "gay" is so often whispered in public behind a cupped hand, friendly and open books about these issues are necessary.



I am all for young adult books that have lesbian protagonists, just like I am all about books that have Jewish protagonists, black protagonists, and middle class white girl from Birmingham, Alabama, protagonists--because a large reason for young adult lit is to give teenagers something legitimate, whether it be relateable to them, or expand their vision of the world.



And Finding H.F. is absolutely legitimate, whether you follow the "rainbow sign" or not.

The Caldecott

Over the past few weeks, through my class, I have learned a lot about the Caldecott Medal--the award given for excellence in picture books annually. Perhaps the most important fact that has arisen, is that the award is given to the illustrator of the book, not the author (excepting when they are the same person, of course). This obviously puts a larger emphasis on the pictorial aspect of these books than the literary, a subject about which I have mixed feelings.

Obviously, there is a certain credibility (even cache?) implied by awarding a person's work, and the work of illustrators is often dismissed in the art field as "lesser"--just as the children's author is in the literary field. So, the Caldecott Medal definitely performs an important task by recognizing picture books for what they are--pieces of art with real artistic (as well as commercial) merit.

However, at the same time as the Medal values the art of picture books, by ignoring the author (relatively speaking) it devalues the literary worth of picture books. At least intellectually, the Medal seems to place the words at a lower level. Now, this is true to a certain extent--after all, what sets picture books apart is obviously the pictures. And it is also important to note that very young children certainly value the pictures more than the words, especially if they are capable of imparting a story, as all the Caldecott Medal winners should be.

But ultimately, it disappoints me that there is not a requisite award, of equal standing, to honor the author of a great picture book. Even if the award were presented to the author/illustrator team, the arrangement would feel a little more fair to me.

It just all seems to come back to the fear of honoring children's literature, or, even more basically, things that are simple. Because Goodnight, Moon has very few words on each page, does not make it any less mesmerizing or reassuring as a poem, as a story, as a lullaby, even. So I say, give picture book authors credit where credit is due--although the illustrator's work is vital, it is the author who first pens a manuscript and sends it off, sparse as it may seem, in hopes of finding a reader who can picture its potential.