Romancing Reality In YA Fiction

Mandy Robbins Taylor

I saw a bumper sticker slogan on a Facebook page recently that read: “BOYS IN BOOKS ARE BETTER.” Of course, the comment thread that followed was a long string of female readers' bemoaning agreement. I have to agree as well. But I'll take it one step further and ask—why is that? I've been thinking about this a lot lately as I plan on taking on this topic in my January 2012 graduate lecture at Vermont College
It's probably safe to say that this slogan originated with the YA set as opposed to adult readers—I'm basing this assumption on the use of the word “boys” rather than “men”. Though adult romances certainly don't get a free pass, I'm going to focus on the utter falsehoods about love and romance being perpetuated by most YA novels out there right now—even some of my favorite books are guilty of starring the ideal guy with perfect hair, glistening biceps and the soulful sensitivity of a poet or musician (which he usually is). This boy will, of course, aggressively make all the first moves and pursue our heroine, but when it comes time to be there for her in the midst of her grief/confusion/fear, he's as sensitive and perceptive as her best girl friend who's known her since preschool.

What's not to like? Way better than real life guys, right? As a teen, I would swoon over these 'book boys' and dream about the day when I would find my own and fall madly in love and get married and live happily (and extremely together-ly) ever after. I went through high school, then college, and never found him.

You could criticize me for being fantastically moronic and idealistic to buy into this. You could argue that it's clearly just fiction, a made up story. You might believe I'm singular in my stupidity, but hear me out.

Is there such a thing as “just fiction”? Doesn't good fiction mirror life—at least in the heart of it, in the big questions it asks? Even fantasy novels often bring out the deepest real questions we're all living every day. So why depart so wholly from reality in our depictions of teen romance?

I'm not saying there's no place for a Cinderella story. There are romance tales that are allegorical in their truth, I think Cinderella is one of those. And, okay, sometimes pure escapism is a justifiable guilty pleasure. That's another topic altogether.

But in your average, contemporary, realistic YA novel, why do the boys have to be so much better than real life teen boys? What are we telling our girls to expect?

As I've walked with my closest friends through relationships that turned to engagements that turned to marriage in the last half decade or so, I've seen us all struggle with similar issues. The heart of all of them lies here: love isn't a fairytale. There are (much) harder things about marriage than picking up dirty socks off the floor and snoring. Passion fades—'Edward and Bella' love is pure fantasy. We all have days and weeks when we are certain we will end up divorced. Real people have real, serious, heavy, painful baggage, and sometimes it collides and explodes and we don't know where to go from there. Sorry girls, it's sad but true. There's is no perfect—or even perfect “for you”.

The real question I'm asking is: why are we hiding that part from teenagers? Do we think sheltering them from this reality is doing them any favors? Do we think they don't already see and struggle with it all the time, in their own dating relationships and those of their friends?

Books full of easy, passionate, flawless romance are communicating to them that real love is out there; they just haven't found it yet.

So why do YA authors do this? I have a few theories. The most relevant to this topic: I think we process our own grief over the loss of the fantasy by creating it in our heads. That's to say, we make up what we finally realize we're never going to have in order to move on from the expectation. Is this healthy or functional? I don't know, I'm not a psychologist. It could be. But is it healthy and functional to then publish these fantasy narratives and hand them to kids?

As YA grows ever hotter and the market continues to expand (hooray!), the depth and scope of subject matter has increased greatly. But something that remains the same in most genres of YA (which, it's worth noting, is still primarily written by women) is the fantasy romance. Even books that try to convey some complexity and difficulty take the easy way out—the boy is too beautiful, his hair too perfect, his kiss too melted buttery, to not forgive in the end. Or he has a flaw—but really only one. And it's surmountable, thank goodness.

Boys in books are better because they are fairy tales. They don't exist.

There are some notable exceptions to this phony, fantasy romance epidemic: Sara Zarr's Sweethearts may be the best example I've read in recent years. Jenny Han does interesting things in The Summer I Turned Pretty and its sequels—her teen protagonist's gradual realization that we don't necessarily only love one person at a time is achingly real and bittersweet. With her third book in the series recently hitting the NY Times Bestseller list that should say something to the naysayers who insist girls only want to spend their allowance on the fantasy. And Varian Johnson looks at the complexities of childhood friendships turned adolescent relationships—with a side of grappling with religion—in Saving Maddie. If you haven't read these books, please do.

If at this point you're tempted to write me off as a hopeless non-romantic, please don't. That couldn't be farther from the truth—I think the fact that I love romance as much as I do is the reason I'm even grappling with this topic to begin with. As I write this I'm listening to Taylor Swift's Love Story on my iPod for the 847th time—pure fantasy. But I can't help it, I just love, love, love it. There is no drug that can beat the feeling (or illusion) of a fairy tale romance come true. But I have to say this... isn't there room for something more? Can't we dare to put our emotional realities out there a little more often, as opposed to our emotional fantasies?

Alan Cumyn, an advisor of mine at Vermont College of Fine Arts, engaged in extensive dialogue with me about writing from our core and dealing with our emotional realities. It isn't easy. I think there are as many reasons for avoiding it as there are people.

For example, Alan said recently about his upcoming YA novel, Tilt (Groundwood, August 2011): “Sex happens in this novel -- you might say it's the centerpiece. Stan's relationship [...] has its own complications, but eventually it represents a safe harbor for Stan. He doesn't have to manage the whole world alone, and he doesn't have to repeat his father's mistakes either.

“The intimacy is handled with some sensitivity, I believe. There is a moment of excruciating embarrassment -- there would have to be in an adolescent novel involving sex. In this case it's over premature ejaculation, a disaster that my lovers get through. But there’s also real tenderness and I hope a strong nod to the poignancy and power of first sexual experiences.”

Embarrassing stuff, right? When you're dealing with realistic relationships, complete with missteps, humiliations, complications, awkwardness, actions you can't undo and words you can't take back, I think it's bound to become more autobiographical, at least in spirit, than most writers are comfortable with. You'll get muddled, you'll get sentimental. You’ll get stuck at an emotional moment that hits so close to home it makes you freeze up. Yeah, vampire and archangel love will sound like a pretty novel idea at that point.

But I hope that one of these days, you'll take a deep breath, sit down, give yourself the “Nobody will EVER read this!” pep talk, and try to write your truth anyway. I hope you'll push yourself, make yourself cry, break your own heart again and rub salt in your wounds.

I hope you'll do it, and that despite your pep talk, you do let others, especially kids, read it someday. Because if you don't nobody will.

And I firmly, passionately believe (as my January VCFA workshop members who saw me start crying over it can attest) that these kids, our readers, deserve the truth about love—and all the garbage that comes with it.

Mandy Robbins Taylor will graduate from Vermont College's MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults program in January 2012, though she would truly rather not. Ever. She loves writing realistic young adult, funny fantasy middle grade, and goofy picture books. She occasionally teaches workshops for teen writers, passing on some of that hard-earned MFA knowledge and staying connected with her audience. You can find her this October teaching the teen portion of the inter-generational Pacific Coast Childrens Writers Workshop...Feel free to email her at MandyRobbins7@aol(dot)com with any questions about this post, her writing, or Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Props for Emotion: The Objective Correlative Unveiled

C. M. McCarthy

In an episode of Family Guy, main character Peter responds to someone calling him a “degenerate” with the following line: “A degenerate, am I? Well, you are a festizio! See, I can make up words too, Sister.” I’m only somewhat embarrassed to admit that this quote popped into my head the first time I heard someone use the term “objective correlative” in a writing workshop at Vermont College of Fine Arts. It didn’t help that the person said it too fast, leaving this abashed writer to ask, “What’s an object of Cruella de Vil?”

As it turns out, the objective correlative is neither a Disney antagonist’s prop nor a phrase created to make fledgling writers feel like fools. The objective correlative (O.C.) can be a writer’s best friend, particularly in this precarious world of “Show, But Don’t You Dare Tell!” So what the heck is an objective correlative? T.S. Eliot (author, poet and in this writer’s opinion, a brilliant, brilliant man) investigated the O.C. in his essay, “Hamlet and His Problems.” He wrote that it is “a set of objects […] which shall be the formula of [a] particular emotion.” He goes further to say that the O.C. is “the only way of expressing emotion in the form of art.” That seems a bit extreme, but the O.C. is a goldmine when it comes to illustrating sentiments without spelling them out. 

So what does an O.C. look like? My favorite example is taken from J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, wherein the reader cannot escape the main character, Holden’s, red hunting hat. Holden’s focus on the hat makes it an endowed object, but Salinger goes further, using the hat to subtly evoke the pain of Holden’s brother, Allie’s, death. In the beginning, Holden tells the reader, “I’ll tell you the kind of red hair [Allie] had. […] I remember once, […] having a hunch that if I turned around all of a sudden, I’d see Allie. So I did, and sure enough, he was sitting on his bike outside the fence – there was this white fence that went all around the course and he was sitting there, about a hundred and fifty yards behind me, watching me tee off. That’s the kind of red hair he had.” Holden is not over his brother’s death, but instead of dragging down the plot with sad memories, Salinger uses the red hunting hat to keep Allie’s distinguishing feature, and therefore Allie, in the reader’s mind. In essence, the object, a.k.a. the hat, is correlating Holden’s unspoken grief. Hence the objective correlative. 

More than likely, you are already using the O.C. without realizing it. Whenever your character turns from a fight between family members to focus on a crack down the middle of a windowpane, you’re using an O.C. You’re showing that he’s divided without telling: an act which defines that great difference between creating an emotional reaction in the reader and relaying one.

C. M. McCarthy writes fiction for all ages as well as poetry and screenplays. She earned a BA in Creative Writing from Ohio University, a grad certificate in screenwriting from UCLA and a MFA in Writing For Children & Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts (Class of Jan. 2011). If you have any questions or comments about her post or VCFA, you can contact Cori at corimccarthy@yahoo.com.