Coming-of-age is a Vantage column where staffers share their opinions on a specific beat. From in-depth analyses of TV series to miscellaneous musings in music (and everything in between), this monthly column is an avenue to spread and inspire thought-provoking ideas.
In this column, Vantage Magazine Staffer Jules talks about how she has rekindled (pun intended) her love for young adult books, and challenges the notion that reading fiction is less worthwhile than reading nonfiction.
When life feels like it’s moving too fast and I need to take a breath, I turn to a world that’s not my own. Some days it’s a movie, others a K-drama, but most recently, it’s been a good old-fashioned—and preferably tangible—book.
Now, I’m not talking about books like Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers or Simon Sinek’s Start With Why. The books I’m referring to are the famously cheesy and, quite literally, out-of-this-world stories that you find in the Fiction and Young Adult aisles.
When I was 13, I turned the page of my first Young Adult (YA) novel and never turned back. Over the years, I witnessed the rise and fall of dystopian trilogies, read about sick teens in Amsterdam, and fully invested myself in what was essentially The Bachelor–if the bachelor was a prince named Maxon.
But as I grew older, more self-conscious, I began browsing titles under “Nonfiction” and “Self-Help” to meet certain societal and self-imposed expectations. Determined to prove myself in the “grown-up” section, I powered through books on self-development, business, and psychology, reading notes included.
I use the term “grown-up” with air quotes because I believe that many of us have this unfounded perception of book genres and their implications. We’ve been led to think that what we read is a reflection of our maturity and our intellect. This is why we can clearly differentiate the adult pile from the young adult pile. But is it really possible to segregate books by just adding one word before another?
When Typhoon Odette caused a power outage in my hometown for most of the holiday break, my unread novels were happy to be put out of their misery, and, truthfully, so was I. After exploring The Midnight Library, visiting Beautiful Ruins, and journeying Any Way The Wind Blows, I finally found the answer to my question: Labels are suggestions, not law, and the oxymoronic term “young adult” is simply moronic.
At one point or another, I’ve carried a nonfiction book around as a prop–as if to say, “Yes, I am an intellectual.” This was rooted in my false assumption that nonfiction is a more “respectable” genre than fiction. But if I really wanted to reclaim the YA narrative, I had to get over myself and this self-limiting belief. Now that I’ve stopped invalidating my literary choices, I can whip out a Taylor Jenkins-Reid paperback in public without feeling like I have an illegal firearm with me.
We don’t outgrow books or book genres. On the contrary, we grow in our capacity to understand the lessons hidden in these “easy-reads.” If we go beneath the romance, danger, and outrageous situations that our favorite characters always seem to land themselves in, we discover unresolved emotions and uncomfortable truths–oftentimes the same ones that we’re still processing ourselves. At times, we might even find new and deeper meaning in words we’ve already read when we revisit them a few years older and, hopefully wiser.
Yet the biggest and most seemingly obvious revelation I came to after returning to fiction is the fact that I am a young adult. Why am I trying so hard to avoid books that are written for me in the first place? Is it some kind of reverse Peter Pan Syndrome where I can’t wait to grow up? I’m just relieved to put my fake nonfiction days behind me and excited to be young adulting again.
Fiction books are officially back on my shelf and I’m giddily catching up on all the sweet (and spicy) page-turners I’ve missed. Did someone say messy feelings, angst, and awkward miscommunication? You better believe I’ve already added it to my Goodreads.
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