I had the pleasure today of listening to Lucy Christopher, author of Stolen and The Killing Woods, as she shared her writing process and how setting drives her writing. Her remarks about her research trips reminded me of how powerful my experiences with setting were during the writing marathon at the Lake Michigan Writing Project. During the writing marathon, we walked the streets of Grand Rapids, letting settings such as Veterans Park, The Cottage bar, and even the police station rev our writing engines. At each setting, we paused for a 20 minute free write: sensory observations of the space, story ideas inspired by the surroundings, descriptions of memories triggered by the area, or anything else. Writing marathons can be done alone but for an extra challenge, take a friend or even your writer's group and share part of your work after each free write. (Nothing keeps the pressure on like the buddy system!) Next time you find yourself stuck, give it a try. My essay that follows emerged from a free write session at the Grand Rapids Public Library.
Why I Write YA
I sit looking at the silver gray stairs and balconies soaring up. Behind me, the neon orange sign flashes, “Teens.” I sit in the corner, against the wall. I don't belong in the teens' section. I didn't as a child when, though my reading level was easily there, the books with teenage problems and *gasp*, sex, were too mature for the eleven-year-old girl and scared her away from ever venturing to those shelves. I don't now, as an adult, trespassing on the teens who want to read about sex without me looking over their shoulder. Perhaps this is why all of my teen novels contain what the publisher refers to as “romantic elements.” Meaning, of course, sex.
I say that I am not embarrassed about my stories, but I must be because every time I begin to tell someone about one of my novels it's only a matter of time before I feel the need to confess that there's sex in them. I'm not even Catholic.
Do you know what I want? (No, not that, I'm not a teenage boy after all.) I want someone to come up to that eleven-year-old girl. To point her in the direction of A Wrinkle in Time and its companion novels. To say, “You'll love these stories about this wizard.” Maybe even to encourage some Dickens or L.M. Montgomery. And when she is headed to high school at thirteen, I want that someone to come back. To show her Flipped and Phyllis Reynolds Naylor's Alice books, that will grow her into fourteen and the crush that will be her first boyfriend. I want those books to echo what her mother always told her about sex. That we're all curious, that it belongs in a caring, committed relationship because that will make it beautiful. That waiting is good but the world won't end if she doesn't.
And when she is sixteen and has already been kissed and this might-be-love feels right and not right at the same time, I want someone to show her my books. To let her take on those feelings through someone else, to make the waiting maybe not so hard. To ease the tension as she wonders all those years if love will keep. (It will.)
Most of all, I want her to realize that no one feels at home in the teen section. We can skirt around it or avoid it. Hang out in it, revisit it, or even sit in the corner with our backs pressed to the wall. Beyond those shelves, the adult section awaits and those silver stairs are ready to take us whenever and wherever we want to go.
I say that I am not embarrassed about my stories, but I must be because every time I begin to tell someone about one of my novels it's only a matter of time before I feel the need to confess that there's sex in them. I'm not even Catholic.
Do you know what I want? (No, not that, I'm not a teenage boy after all.) I want someone to come up to that eleven-year-old girl. To point her in the direction of A Wrinkle in Time and its companion novels. To say, “You'll love these stories about this wizard.” Maybe even to encourage some Dickens or L.M. Montgomery. And when she is headed to high school at thirteen, I want that someone to come back. To show her Flipped and Phyllis Reynolds Naylor's Alice books, that will grow her into fourteen and the crush that will be her first boyfriend. I want those books to echo what her mother always told her about sex. That we're all curious, that it belongs in a caring, committed relationship because that will make it beautiful. That waiting is good but the world won't end if she doesn't.
And when she is sixteen and has already been kissed and this might-be-love feels right and not right at the same time, I want someone to show her my books. To let her take on those feelings through someone else, to make the waiting maybe not so hard. To ease the tension as she wonders all those years if love will keep. (It will.)
Most of all, I want her to realize that no one feels at home in the teen section. We can skirt around it or avoid it. Hang out in it, revisit it, or even sit in the corner with our backs pressed to the wall. Beyond those shelves, the adult section awaits and those silver stairs are ready to take us whenever and wherever we want to go.
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