Some ten years ago, as a young man still in college, I could proudly claim that I hadn’t read any children’s books since I was, in fact, still a child – largely excepting my personal pet favorite, “The Chronicles of Prydain”. I was an adult, and throughout my teen years and into my early twenties I was reading adult fiction.
But by that point in time, a publishing phenomenon had begun. The Harry Potter books were taking the reading world by storm, and a new movie adaptation of the first book in the series was soon due. I hemmed and hawed and pooh-poohed. I didn’t read children’s books. I was an adult. Other adults might read children’s books, but they were quite beneath me. Such is the folly of a young man straining to be something more than he yet was. (And, I suppose, still yet is.)
And then I saw the movie. And I relented, and I read all the books then extent. And they were fabulous, and I looked back at my amateurish self and cursed him for not relenting sooner, for what sort of childish sop is so elitist and snobbish that they look down their noses at good books just because of how they are marketed?
Since then, the craze has continued, and it has boiled over. I’m not talking about the Harry Potter craze. I’m talking about the YA craze. Continue reading