Why Do I Read Shitty YA Novels?

I just finished reading The Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, which I have been chipping away at on and off for the last month. For anyone who hasn’t heard of this series or is unable to make inferences from titles, it is a young adult fantasy novel that is quite simply not that great. I am probably going to see the movie, whenever it comes out this summer, despite knowing that the movie will inevitably fail to rise above its subpar source material. Last winter I played the exact same game with Beautiful Creatures (telling myself it was all for Emma Thompson), dragging Anya and my friend Starbuck down the rabbit hole with me (We kind of sort of mostly kept from laughing out loud during the movie until Anya had a feminism induced angry noises fest toward the end).

I am, of course, not the only adult who partakes in this evidently expansive market and I cannot be the only adult who is completely aware of the literary mediocrity of this specific genre. While I cannot speak for the general public (I also am extremely lazy and am not getting paid enough/anything to do any actual research in this area), I can attempt to break down my own bizarre behavior and pose some questions and possible theories on this strange, sad phenomena.

Snarky Redheaded Ordinary High School Student meets Snarky Bad Boy Jerk with a Heart of Gold.

“Now Paul,” you may be saying, “it’s not really fair of you to judge these books meant for adolescents by your sophisticated and mature set of literary standards.” But it is though. I may be beyond the target age of readers for this book, but that does not excuse the low quality of work on display here. Before I rip it apart, I will mention the few things I did enjoy in the book. I liked its use of the word “asshat,” and I am always a sucker for unrequited love (although I quickly got over that by the time the book introduced its third unrequited love triangle).

The plot is essentially a thinly-veiled reworking of Harry Potter with a couple of Star Wars-y twists thrown in at the end. Is that, in itself, a crime? Of course not. Harry Potter and Star Wars owe much of their stories to various fantasy and science fiction stories that came before them and the archetypal characters and plot points that have been used by storytellers through the ages. However, both Harry Potter and Star Wars were able to take genre tropes and tweak them into something new and special, with heavy doses of depth and style.

City of Bones relies far too heavily on readers’ knowledge of these genre tropes in lieu of a little something called character development. The book is full of flat, formulaic, and one dimensional characters who spend their time going through the motions of their roles. Does every character have to be a compelling and dynamic creation? Again, no, but, at the very least, the protagonists should be (or interesting in their pointed lack of charisma when surrounded by those with it). Instead we’re stuck with the Special Snowflake Audience Surrogate, Nerdy Love Interest Foil Best Friend, and Pretty Lethal Chef Action Girl. None of the heavy-handed characters ever feel like fully fleshed “real” people and it’s thus impossible for me, as an intelligent audience member, to give a shit.

You know what other book series can be classified under “Young Adult Fantasy?” His Dark Materials. And that shit is not only original, but heart wrenching and full of creative plot twists, mature themes, character development, and way more than fifty shades of gray. And Anya and I first read it when we were ten. There is no reason that this genre should be so chock full of lame, unoriginal supernatural romance with a side of “Surprise! They’re siblings/cousins/long lost brethren/mythical beasts living in the modern world!” You know what fucking shocked me as a twelve year old? Sirius Black being a good guy. And friends with the Potters!

And if J.K. Rowling does resort to some pretty old school literary tricks, at least it’s so well written that we don’t mind. Forgive me if I can’t get behind “his hair gleamed in the sunlight like the fire of a thousand suns, the strong yet delicate lines of his now vulnerable face showing her how gentle he could be” being really sneaky foreshadowing for a romance. COME. ON.

First of all, Swifty, cats, along with many other things, disprove this dumb statement. Secondly, gag.

Also, am I the only one that can’t look away from her hideous nails?

So I have now laid the issues with the series/genre on the table, but that does not explain why I read this specific book or why I will continue to dabble in this YA realm. I can critique and downplay my involvement with the book all day long, but I still read it. I spend the majority of my time questioning my motivations for doing everything, so I can only posit some possible theories regarding my actions here.

It basically boils down to two possible explanations. The first is that this is one way for me to cling to my fleeting youth and stay up-to-date on “what the kids are doing these days.” I am getting worse and worse at answering my mom’s questions of “Who sings this?” when listening to our area’s Top 40 radio station. I know nothing about sports, and my knowledge of television and movies has always been... specific. Reading these books makes me feel like I am able to peek into a small window of youth culture. I can see current ideals of art, beauty, gender, and morals, while also getting snippets of popular (or niche) hobbies. I can also blame it on the anthropologist within’s attempt to understand the various groups I encounter in the world. Right?

“You remember, you fail math, you flunk out of school, you end up being the guy at the pizza place that sweeps the floor and says, 'Hey, kids, where's the cool parties this weekend?' We've been through this.”

My other hypothesis is that these types of books provide a specific kind of outlet that actually relies on all of the negatives discussed above. It serves as a nice break from some of the meatier material I also read.
SCENE: Paul’s bathtub, night. One of my favorite character in A Song of Ice and Fire just bit it or I’m having an emotional reaction to the highs and lows of the human condition in Howards End? Let’s switch over to City of Bones for a bit.
It can be comforting in the sense that it is entirely expected and familiar, and there is a certain safeness in the absence of mystery. I know exactly what is going to happen to these characters and because I am completely unconcerned with the characters’ fates, I cannot be hurt by anything the book “throws” at me.

Those are my best guesses, although I remain unsure as to which theory is the sadder explanation. I do not see my behavior changing anytime in the near future, but I can at least find a small amount of solace in my acceptance of it and efforts at reaching a greater understanding of myself and the world around me. And we’re not even touching Twilight. Yet.

-Paul

Perception vs. Reality

So, we have this friend. Let’s call her Swiss Miss. Swiss Miss played an integral role in our college experience, being a key player in some of the best and most of the worst memories from this time of our lives. We’re a little surprised that we somehow managed to go five months without sharing any anecdotes from this important character from our past (she spent a few seasons solidly in the the main cast, before the writers decided to reduce her role to special guest star), which we can only attribute to our doing our best to forget her.

Nobody’s perfect, but Swiss Miss has more than her fair share of flaws. We can look back now and (kind of) laugh about her numerous shortcomings because it is (almost) funny to look at them from afar (we can’t emphasize enough how not funny they are when living with her). By far and large, her biggest/saddest/most absurd problem is the extremely delusional disconnect between how she perceives herself and the reality of her questionable-at-best character.

You’re beautiful.

If you asked Swiss Miss to describe herself (but don’t worry, you will never have to persuade her to share her multifarious opinions with you), she would tell you that she is the full-packaged triple threat deal: pretty, smart, and nice (never mind that you can only ever, at most, maintain two of the elusive trifecta, of which Anya will tell you all about one day). Now, Swiss Miss is a pretty woman. Fine. We will give her that one. But smart? Not so much. And nice!? Girl has an ego and sense of entitlement that would cause her to fit right in with America’s Royal Family, the Kardashian Klan.

Never let fame affect what really matters.

We are all guilty of occasionally rating ourselves both higher and lower in specific areas, where a panel of experts would rank us rather differently. Maybe we’re extra harsh on the the state of our stomach fat or constantly insist that we are “such good drunks.” While this isn’t great, there is a huge difference between downplaying a weakness or playing up a strength (real or imagined) and having some kind of magical idealized version of yourself that exists ONLY IN YOUR HEAD AND HAS NEVER, EVER BEEN A REALITY.

That’s the worst thing about Swiss Miss. It’s not that she’s simply not a nice person. We’re not exceedingly genial people, but we’re also quite aware of this personality quirk (you say ‘flaw,’ we say ‘advantage,’ so... let’s meet somewhere in the middle?). The true issues arise from the fact that she operates on a level of cuntery and petty malice that even we can’t touch, all the while thinking that she is the greatest friend, daughter, roommate, sister, girlfriend, student, employee, and conscientious citizen in existence. She then spends an exorbitant amount of time lamenting on how unappreciated she is and how everyone in the universe is constantly taking advantage of her bottomless well of generosity.

Surely she’s not that bad you say. You’re just jealous because she’s got her life together (ha!) and you obviously don’t. She can’t be so bad that you have to make up a word like “cuntery” for her. FINE. You insisted. We hear you. Just keep reading.

Her deep-seated evil began in the womb, although it managed to hide itself rather successfully, not manifesting itself until Swiss Miss turned four, in what would infamously be known as “The Flower Incident” (alternative title: “Why Swiss Miss Will Never Be the Favorite”). On a lazy summer afternoon, young Swiss Miss was enjoying a snack of cookies. After finishing her reasonably-sized snack, Swiss Miss decided that she needed more. Her mother told her that she had eaten enough and that dinner would be served in another hour. Swiss Miss was unsatisfied with this answer and began to loudly protest, as children are wont to do.

While the beginning of the story may be a tale well-known to us all, this is where the plot diverges from the archetypal tantrum, fatherly intervention, and lesson learned, into something a bit... darker. Instead of screaming at her mother, running away, or throwing her toys around in a fit of rage, Swiss Miss quietly went into the living room. She climbed a chair, so that she could reach the top of the fireplace mantle. At the center of the mantle was a glass case holding a delicate dried rose that her father had given her mother on their first date. Swiss Miss took the sentimental flower out of the case and crushed it into a hundred pieces over the carpet.

Remind us again why we should have children?

Some of you might be apt to dismiss this singularly shocking and heinous behavior as “kids will be kids”. We might buy that if she hadn’t only gotten more diabolical with age. Also if she hadn’t destroyed something that she, as a four year old, knew was her mother’s most treasured possession, and purposely set out to punish her for limiting the cookie intake of a kindergartener. Therein lies Swiss Miss’s molten hot core of evil. Most of know people we dislike, or even hate. We have friends that hurt our feelings or siblings that make us seethe with white hot rage. What do we do about it? We suck it up, take a deep breathe, and dream up revenge fantasies that we never unleash in person. We type up vitriolic emails, wait twenty four hours, and delete them. We spend our lunch break bitching about the depravity, and then go back to work like professionals.

Swiss Miss does all of the former and none of the latter. Those awful, completely below the belt things you would never *actually* say to your parents/sister/boyfriend/co-worker? She lets it fly. Angry at your best friend? Sleep with her boyfriend to prove a point. Not happy with your meal at a restaurant? Steal the silverware, make a mess, don’t leave a tip, maybe even bitch at the waitress for good measure. Annoyed that your roommate has her boyfriend over too much? Stop speaking to her, stop doing household chores, and knock all of her towels off the rack.

The thing is, she honestly believes that all of that behavior is not only justified, but necessary. How do you get someone like that to look in the mirror and say “oh shit, I should change something”?

Answer: You can’t.

If you’re worried that this article applies to you, it probably doesn’t. These kind of people never let those pesky thoughts cross their minds.

Don't Put Your Pets in the Freezer and Other Advice You Shouldn't Need

Have you ever had one of those awkward moments where you’re having a fairly casual conversation with someone, and it suddenly takes a turn? Not the kind where you’re catching up with an old friend and you ask if their grandpa is still being a racist asshole to his neighbors like he was when you were kids and there’s that awful pause before they tell you he died. Or the kind where you think you’re having a pretty casual conversation about people watching in the bar and suddenly your companion has an outburst about what a slut you look like for wearing a tanktop. Those are fucking weird too, but what we MEANT was the kind where you’re talking to someone you think you know decently well, and they suddenly say something like “and we’ve always just kept our pets in the freezer after they die for long enough that my mom has time to paint their likeness, and sometimes they got a little freezer burned or moldy, so that’s why I don’t like ice cream.”

Screeching. Halt.

Best case scenario: you take a minute to compose yourself in silence before you either pretend like it never happened, or you try to address it thoughtfully. Or at least get your response down to an appropriate indoor volume. Over here it’s more likely that we’d throw out an immediate stream of “WHAT?! Your mother WHAT? WHAT. What? Just why. God, why, what? I love ice cream! What the fuck? How big is your freezer? Did you just have hamsters? Why? Paintings? Like oil paintings? Didn’t you have pictures of them?” and so on.

So many questions here! Is the ermine frozen?

Would you put your kids in the freezer too?

We don’t think we do anything that weird. But that’s the thing! You never think it’s *that* weird until you’re on the wrong end of that horrible silence, waiting for the other person’s judgment to either come pouring out of their mouth or their eyeballs. We freely admit that we spend a freakish amount of time together, so very rarely do we have a moment like that between the two of us. We would be lying if we said we had never been on the wrong end of an awkward silence together, but when the normal person is outnumbered, they just have to shut the fuck up and tell the story later, when they find a group of like minded people. We have both DEFINITELY been both the outnumbered normal one, and the entire group of like minded people. Ha. Not a great sign.

Today we’re going to talk about the subjects of some of those painful conversations, and put it to you, internet, to arbitrate. Not that we’ll ever change.

Subject 1: The Seven Hour Bath

Not too terribly long ago, Paul and Anya were spending some time in the kitchen, talking about their day. While Anya was hard at work for eight hours, Paul revealed that he had somehow managed to take a seven hour bath. Yes, he was in the bath almost the entire time you were at work, and most certainly for more time than you were actually working at work (Unless you’re not as underemployed as we are).

Classic book from Anya’s childhood, obviously one that Paul needs to read.

Anya didn’t bat an eye upon hearing the news, accustomed as she is to Paul’s borderline obsession with taking a bath at LEAST once a day. However, when Anya’s mother got wind of this, we knew it would be trouble. The woman is not shy about sharing her very strong feelings about other people's’ doings, no matter how little they impact her. Even worse, she has what she calls “eagle ears”, which we assume means ears as powerful as an eagle’s eyes? Basically she’s an eavesdropper of epic proportions. True to form, she spent the next fifteen minutes loudly expressing her outright disbelief that someone could spend so much time in the bath. You’d be a prune, how do you keep the water hot, I’d get bored, I’d get cold, you shouldn’t have electronics near the bathtub, what are you doing with your life, etc. etc. Days later she was still bringing it up. Who is the crazy one here? If you had the time would you take a seven hour bath or does Paul need to seek treatment for his addiction? Is the weirdest thing of all the fact that Anya’s mother in chiming in on Paul’s bathing habits?

Subject 2: Selling Your Eggs To Strangers

Not talking about the organic, hormone free, free range, delicious “like you can totally tell the difference, I can’t eat the store bought kind anymore” eggs your chickens lay in their cozy little nests every morning that you gather fresh at the first light of dawn and want to sell at the Farmer’s Market. We’re talking about the ones coming out of your ovaries and endangering your independence every month.

Let’s back up. Anya is a frequent peruser of Craigslist, unfortunately. She is always on the lookout for a ferret that needs rescuing or lost dog that she should be looking out for, finding, and returning to its caring owner as the patron saint of lost canines. Somehow in the mystical vortex that is Craigslist, she stumbled upon an ad offering $8,000 for Jewish eggs. As in, the ovum of a Jewish girl (in good health, young, to help out all of those poor, sad infertile Jewish parents who can’t conceive, but won’t settle for gentile), and suddenly her world turned upside down.

“Why!”, she exclaimed, “Just think of what I could do with that money! I could pay for less than twenty percent of graduate school! Or buy a whole car! Or invest in my future! I would totally sell my eggs to someone for that kind of money!” (Unfortunately not *these* someones, for she is gentile through and through.)

Yes, I’d like to keep the box please.

Swooping in again with her “eagle ears”, Anya’s mother shouts her disapproval from the rooftops. “That’s insane!”, says she, “Why would you ever do such a thing? Other people raising *my* grandchildren! It’s unthinkable! Wouldn’t you always think about your kids running around out there?!” gesticulating wildly at the great wide world.

Nope.

It’s not as if you’re selling an actual child, which we hear is against the law these days. Anya foresees only ignominious death for each of the little gametes currently mooching off of her. Is it completely crazy to get something out of them? Especially when their brethren cause so much trouble! Don’t even ask Anya’s mom about paid surrogacy! Is it crazy that we’re even talking about this? Should Anya quit Craigslist (or at least the selling body parts section?)? Is it all completely unreasonable?

Subject 3: Talking about Blowjobs at the Dinner Table

And now we come to the last topic, the one we know is DEFINITELY totally weird. The one that would bring conversations with others to a halt as they stared at us incredulously, the one we really don’t think twice about until we do, and then it gets real/weird.

Dinner with Anya’s family can be a trying experience for a new guest. Lots of strong opinions (shocking!), plenty of griping, tough to get a word in edgewise. For those choosing to run this gauntlet, the reward is the occasional conversations that go in a direction that causes Anya’s mother to throw her hands up and say “where did I go wrong?!”, participating all the while. In an attempt to prove that her family can be hard to handle for a newcomer, not too long ago, Anya brought up “that time we were at Olive Garden and you told us that blowjobs can cure colds and we talked about it for like fifteen minutes in public”, and her mother developed sudden amnesia. “I would NEVER say such a thing! You must have dreamt it”. 

Not really trying too hard to remember.

Apparently that one specific topic was beyond the pale for her, despite that fact that other dinner table topics worth noting include the sex life of a newly married fifty year old, the suspicious circumstances of a threesome between some local athletes, the trial of a teacher who allegedly slept with two(?) students and the evidence presented therein, etc. Even with corroboration from another witness, Anya’s mother insisted on persisting in her fantasy that her family would NEVER, EVER discuss third base or its palliative properties at the dinner table, or ANYWHERE ELSE FOR THAT MATTER.

Then last night, over some homemade Mexican food, the whole family discussed those dick pics you see in health class of various venereal diseases.

Throw your weird at us! What things do you not think twice about until someone points out that you’re batshit crazy for doing them?

[Illustration from King Bidgood’s in the Bathtub by Audrey Wood] 

The Eternal Question

I’m going to share with you my eternal question, which bears no relation to the one posed by jaunty old Hamlet.  Some form of this question has kept me up many a night (before I discovered the wonders of Ambien), where it became a tool I utilized to torture my brain over the actions and intentions of both myself and others.  Of course, nothing is ever straightforward with me, so I’m going to provide you with a situation to frame my query.

"I just wondered why in Hamlet 1 everybody has to die."

You have a lot of friends.  I say friends, but really, you just know a lot of people that want to be friends with you, you probably don’t actually like many of them.  And really, most of them probably think that you’re more than kind of an asshole, which you are, but they’re too enthralled by your good looks and charm to not want to spend time with you.  Regardless, you’re surrounded by fucks.  You have to admit that even those on your list of people who can do no wrong are flawed in their own special ways, and just because you have come to accept these imperfections, you aren’t necessarily completely okay with them.

Let’s take one of the assclowns you actually like.  We’ll call her Grace.  You’ve known Grace for a long time and she’s fairly decent.  You can trust her to make your significant other feel welcome, without trying to fuck them.  You can talk to her about current events and movie musicals of the 1960s.  And when you go out, she doesn’t dress like too big of a slut and she usually doesn’t puke.  What more could you ask for?

"It's like they're just people I work with and our job is being popular and shit."

However, as it was once eloquently stated, “Nobody’s perfect.”  Grace has a rather unfortunate character flaw, being that she is a bit of flake.  And by “bit of a flake,” I mean that she is one of the most unreliable people that you know.  She’s habitually late for work, which doesn’t really affect you, but her tardiness extends to all of her other appointments, including getting together with you.  There’s fashionably late and then there’s Grace.  You spent two hours waiting for her to show up to her own birthday last year, after you had already told everyone to get there half an hour later than you told Grace.  Everybody was just glad that she showed up period though, because she’s also extremely guilty of last-minute cancellations and making plans to make actual plans, but then never calling you to cement those plans, which she probably would have ended up cancelling anyway.

The thing is, Grace is so damn earnest that you have an usually difficult time at staying upset with her for very long.  So when she calls you up to tell you that she feels like you haven’t talked in forever and she really misses you and she LOVES your new Facebook profile picture and that you should never stop wearing navy and that the two of you NEED to go out and buy navy things or any colored things at the Banana Republic and Gap sale this weekend and then you should totally have an Arrested Development marathon before the new season comes out on Netflix, you know that she genuinely means all of the things that she says.

Navy bluth, amirite?

And when she ends the conversation saying that she just needs to check when she’s working before you settle on a day for your shopping/Tv binge and that she’ll text you tomorrow or maybe Wednesday if she can’t get to the store until then because she has tomorrow off but she’s supposed to hang out with her sister who’s such a complete pain because she just broke up with her boyfriend and is just miserable to be around but is still her sister and everything and that regardless she’ll definitely be texting you tomorrow or Wednesday, you know that she fully intends to do it, you’re just not surprised when you don’t hear anything from her until the next week.

The other thing about Grace is that she flutters around seemingly unaware of her flakiness.  From Grace’s perspective, all of these people, events, and things are constantly being sprung upon her and she can’t help but feel like she’s trapped in this hurricane of situations that are all out of her control and that she’s always one step behind, desperately trying, but failing, to get everything together. She is genuinely surprised every time she overextends herself and leaves you hanging.

At least she left you hanging at a restaurant with a decent wine selection.

Of course, you know Grace.  You know that she’s just involved with too many things and that she sets herself up to fail by creating all of these obligations for herself that she couldn’t possibly all meet and that she is just spread too thin among all of them.  And that her time management fucking sucks.  Because of how heartfelt everything Grace does is, you forgive her time and time again for this flaw.  And sometimes it really hurts because it makes you feel like you’re not important to Grace, who’s supposed to be one of your few really good friends.  You’ve known each other for a long time, and she’s been there for you during some pretty dark times.  That, along with all of the things that you have in common should be more important than the fact that she doesn’t always follow through, right?

You give Grace slack because of her ignorance of her weakness.  You tell yourself that she doesn’t know any better and that if the day ever comes where she is able to take an honest look at herself and accept that she has too much shit going on and needs to prioritize certain things and make commitments to the things that matter and learn to say no to her desires and those of others, that she will actually do it.  To say that Grace is ignorant of this means that you’re also saying that, however intelligent she may be, she has a somewhat crippling lack of self-awareness, which means that she might be equally blind to her greatest strengths and her biggest desires.

Get it together, girl!

You also excuse Grace’s behavior because you yourself have a pretty major character flaw.  Let’s say that you always date the wrong kind of person.  Specifically, you end up dating people who you know are incapable of making you happy.  They have nothing in common with you, or at least nothing important in common with you.  They share none of your deepest dreams or aspirations and you would never dream of having them read your favorite book, because you know that they are incapable of taking anything away from it.  Unlike Grace, you’re completely aware of what you’re doing.  You know that you keep dating these people because they’re there, because it’s simple and easy and it temporarily helps you forget about how alone you feel, while simultaneously making you feel even more alienated by the lack of meaningful connections you have with other people.  Despite being aware of your self-sabotaging dating habits, you continue to them.  Self-awareness has changed nothing for you, other than kind of making you hate yourself.

So, what’s worse: To be oblivious of a major character flaw or to recognize it, yet do nothing to change it?  What good is knowledge when it fails to change any negative behavior and only gives your more heartache?  Is it indeed easier to forgive ignorance or in doing so, are we just infantilizing someone who is supposed to be an equal?  Which is more difficult to witness in others?  Which would you rather be stuck experiencing yourself?  Deep shit, I know.

-Paul