Let’s talk briefly about the Problem Novel. Although I’m sure there are a few good articles and books to be read about this modern YA phenomenon, my understanding and use of the term refers to a type of novel where The Problem dominates the reading experience –  all other elements of story – plot, setting, character development become secondary. Sometimes, writing a Problem Novel means the writer gets away with slopping up the writing, filling a book with lousy, one-dimensional characters, or other crimes against literature. Sometimes, a Problem Novel is a well-written, complex piece of literature that just happens to be about Teens with Problems.

However, if one reads only Problem Novel after Problem Novel, no matter how well-written, one might start to feel their hope for humanity start to fade,  one might start to regret ever wanting to read YA when every book is full of drugs/death/prostitution/neglect/abuse, one might start running far in the opposite direction into a fluffy romance or other fantasy.

Jo Knowles’s See You At Harry’s criss-crosses the line between Problem Novel and Regular Novel with alarming rapidity for a book that is, otherwise, a quiet family story that falls in the late middle-grade, early YA territory. Fern is a middle child among four literarily-named, problem-prone siblings: Sara didn’t get into any good colleges, so she’s stuck at home working for the family restaurant, Holden is keeping a major league secret from his family and everyone he knows, and Charlie is a four-year-old, so he’s a handful. To sensitive Fern, her parents’ marriage seems strained, and the realities of running a family-owned ice cream shop put a strain on everyone.

There’s a lot of angst going on here, and Holden’s secret is certainly a capital-P Problem, but the combination of personalities and strong characterization emphasizes the family dynamic and the intricacies of each relationship, rather than focusing on the “issues.”

And then, Knowles throws in a sucker punch of a PROBLEM, for the whole family. By this point in the novel, I was so endeared by the characters, it didn’t feel like PROBLEM, it felt like a painful but complex family issue. That happens to far too many families.

And also, I was so endeared by the characters that I read the last half of the novel with pages flipping – I was alone with the boy, driving home to Michigan. It was getting late, and I read and read, finishing the last few pages with just barely enough daylight to light the page. Since then, I’ve run into two friends who uttered the phrase “Did you read See You At Harry’s?” in the just same tone that I knew immediately they had gone through the same emotional rollercoaster I did.

So there you have it – a not-so-Problematic Problem Novel that will make you weep. Well done, Jo.

Back in June, Deborah Hopkinson’s Titanic: Voices from the Disaster lit a Titanic-related fire underneath me – I think the day I finished, I picked up Allan Wolf’s The Watch that Ends the Night: Voices from the Titanic.

(I probably also put the movie on hold at the library, but forgive me – as established, I was 12 in 1997)

The Watch that Ends the Night is the story of the Titanic told in poems, with different passengers, crew members, and others providing unique voices and styles to each verse. I am not always a fan of books told with poetry, but I loved both Wolf’s writing and story execution – the alternating voices were engaging, the variations in each poem’s style and form was subtle, and the poems stand alone. It’s the kind of writing that makes you want to slow down, maybe read aloud.

I’m glad that I read Hopkinson’s book first – although Wolf’s work is most certainly a work of fiction, the voices and characters are actual Titanic passengers, many of whom are profiled in Hopkinson’s work. I liked recognizing some of the more obscure characters who played major roles on-ship and during the wreck – the tireless and cheerful wireless operator, Harold McBride, was one of my favorite characters in both Hopkinson & Wolf’s works. But maybe even more interesting is when Wolf give some of the more famous characters an unlikely voice or point of view; his treatment of John Jacob Astor IV, the richest passenger on board, traveling with his pregnant 18-year-old mistress, was particularly unique and moving.

But the most enigmatic, surprising character with the most intoxicatingly rhythmic style? The Iceberg. Gimmicky? Eye-roll-inducing? No. Wolf’s Iceberg is dark, menacing, and constant, providing a voice for the undercurrent of pain, of destruction, of death that is so frightening about Titanic’s story… and about all stories. Nature always wins.

Overall, I was impressed by how Wolf uses language and style to capture these bigger, human themes. This book never feels like a “fictionalization,” but more like an exploration, using poetry to do things that straight nonfiction can’t. I’m not sure this is a book I could ever bear to read again, but I don’t think I will soon forget it.

After reading her debut graphic novel, Smile, I decided that she and fellow comic artist, Hope Larson, were probably Co-Patron Saints of Middle School Girls. Well, maybe Judy Blume retains some of that sainthood – who can forget Margaret Simon and crew? – but I think these two artist ladies are certainly picking up where Blume left off.

Telgemeier’s latest – Drama, available in September – gives us Callie, a purple-haired, excitable theater techie who juggles 7th-grade-caliber boy troubles with the upcoming spring musical – she’s painting the sets. The book spans the length of the show’s preparations, from auditions to closing night, and chronicles the many small dramas and social intricacies that inevitably arise during high pressure situations.

But all drama aside (ha), what I really liked about Callie is that although she was unabashedly and refreshingly young – her worries, her exuberance, her boy-craziness – she is also a bright, driven female character with interests and skills. She’s obsessed with theater in a way that only seventh grade girls can be (and I know of what I speak), and it’s this energy – energy  to learn, to do, to study old movies and collect soundtracks- that drives her decisions and her character growth, not what boys think of her.

Basically, Callie gets to run around and be a well-adujusted 12 or 13-year-old, hang out with her friends, and also kiss some boys. Awesome. If only my own 7th grade self could have been so self-actualized. I think I liked Callie and liked this book so much because after years of reading about the pain and misery and angst of middle school, Telegemeier has given us a book that makes junior high seem like fun. What a novelty!

You might think it strange that I, a young woman who is not married, not a mother, and not (I repeat, NOT) currently with child to read parenting books and articles and blogs with any sort of fervor.

To me, this is not strange at all, because I also used to read my mother’s parenting magazines and books with the same interest and fervor when I was ten years old.

I think when I was ten, I liked reading about how people were supposed to grow and behave and relate to each other. I liked reading about what I’d gone through – all the developmental stages – and looking ahead to see what was next (I remember being concerned to read that 11-years-old was to be a year with lots of vomiting.) Now, my interest in parenting dogma is an issue of values. What do we think is so important that it simply MUST be passed along to our children? Do we value discipline? Creativity? The parent-child relationship? Socialization? Stability? Flexibility?

After reading Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother last year and enjoying the heated conversations that sprung up around the author’s version of Eastern parenting – heavy on tough love, structure, and string instruments – I was excited to see Pamela Druckerman’s Bringing up Bebe offering another cultural perspective on child-rearing. This is a good, quick read – a mix of memoir, humor, and cultural observations Druckerman gleaned after birthing and raising three kids as an American in Paris. She does a good job of representing multiple perspectives, of tying together how parenting attitudes are supported or discouraged through political systems (i.e. French women maintain separate lives from their children better than American moms because it is cultural expected that French women will go back to work ASAP… but they can go back to work because they have generous maternity care, leave, and exceptional government subsidized childcare)

But for me, this book had more in common with a book like Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food than other hot-topic parenting manuals. Druckerman’s take on French parenting focuses on the fact that French families and French women have a different set of cultural values than Americans do, and many of those values support a certain parenting style. Not to say that American parenting is equivalent to the Standard American Diet, but thinking outside the American paradigm, I think, can be eye opening for everyone – not just parents.

Some take-aways that have already started to influence my own behaviors and thinking:

• Babies should fit into your schedule, into your life. This is a major undercurrent in Druckerman’s perception of French parenting. French babies sleep through the night, French parents have more sex, French parents continue to dress up and dine out and go on dates because they don’t bow down to the baby in their life in sacrifice of all else. This might seem harsh, but side effects are Happier Parents, Happier Marriages, Well-Rested Babies, and a childhood that includes boundaries, limits, and routines, which is a good thing. I think this resonated with me because my yet-childless peers and I are at the point where we at least consider the practical implications of introducing children into our lives, and it’s very frightening to think about making a big decision that might bungle up everything you’ve worked for. French families just don’t think that way, and it doesn’t turn out that way, end of story. It’s comforting.
• You should eat four times a day – breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack, dinner. I am not sure why this is so revolutionary to me, but ever since I started experimenting with reducing my sugar and carb intake, I’ve been paying closer attention to how my body works on different foods. One thing I noticed is that when I have a lot of carbs, I get hungry faster, being hungry feels worse, and I am more “snack-y” all around. It almost feels like I become enslaved to food, constantly planning different snacks and thinking about what to eat and trying to put off eating just a bit longer so I can ration what I have. I eat at irregular times and eat more. The French way of eating has one “official” afternoon snack each day – “le gouter.” Somehow, this term has slipped into my mental vocabulary in the past few weeks, especially since I have been working a lot of evening work shifts – having “le gouter” before work keep me from being ravenous for dinner or starving on my late bus home.

Druckerman lays out all sorts of benefits for children and parents who stick to these schedules, too, but again, parenting books aren’t just about technique, but about re-evaluating and discovering your own cultural values. Why treat your kid’s life with any more (or less) care than you give your own life, and if it’s important enough to teach your kids, why not do it now? How French of me…

As I’ve alluded to around these parts, I am trying mightily to be a better reader of fantasy and science fiction. I don’t think I am likely to ever swoon over world-building and magic-wielding like so many of my friends do because, well, I didn’t grow up on it. But I can build up a tolerance, I can find what I like and assess what teens and other readers like, and I can give books a fair chance no matter the genre. Acknowledging one’s biases. Book equality. Broadening horizons, etc.

I want to say that I picked up Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone with a spirit of equanimity, but I didn’t. I knew this book was special because my roommate told me about it. She knows I don’t like fantasy, so she doesn’t tell me about all of them. And then Janssen at Everyday Reading – who is also generally anti-fantasy – not only raved about it, but gave it to her husband. As someone who carefully doles out YA books to her own not-so-fictionally-inclined male partner, I know the weight of that move. It would have to be an exceptional read to pass along something so fantasy-y.

Now, months after the buzz has died down, I pick up this book and completely fall into the story. The heroine, Karou, is a teen living in Prague, studying art. She has her own apartment. She has tattoos. She has blue hair. She has a nasty ex-boyfriend. She has an assortment of artsy friends and a macabre, divey restaurant where they all like to sit around a coffin and eat borscht. I was suprised by how normal and likable these characters were, despite the novel’s unusual setting and the heroine’s unlikely living situation. The real-ness of the characters was put even further into relief when we learn that Karou is an orphan who grew up in a magical workshop of sorts, inhabited by creatures who are kind, protective, and obviously love Karou, despite the fact that they are very clearly not human. Karou’s “father” – Brimstone – runs the show, dealing in a sort of magic that requires a steady supply of teeth – human or animal; when she’s not sketching in her notebook, she’s off on Brimstone’s errands, traveling around the world to meet up with teeth traders, and she is paid with wishes.

The “otherworldliness” here is complex, but what keeps the story interesting is that we never know more than Karou knows, and she’s been kept in the dark regarding this magical business for her entire life. As she uncovers the secrets of the teeth, the wishes, the chimaera, and Brimstone, we too discover another layer to this fantasy. And yes, there is a boy – an angel, actually. About halfway through the book, this story does become more of a paranormal romance (yeuch…). When Akiva starts following Karou around, I was like “oh great, you’re falling in love with an angel, please gag me now), but Taylor weaves this romance into something that is more than just attraction, more than a vague, unconvincing “We Are Meant to BE!”, but something wound up in the rest of the book’s mysteries, a love that is entangled with war and memories and mysticism. At the end of the book, I was swooning, I was convinced.

And the ending! This was what I remember my roommate raving about – the ending. It’s a series, yes, but the ending combines satisfaction, surprise, and a cliffhanger – it makes you certain you will read the next book without feeling cheated.

In other words: yes, this book made me forget that I don’t like fantasy. And yes, I will be passing it along to my own man-partner. It is that special.

Can a book fall short of your expectations but also completely satisfy? I think I have a tendency to love or loathe books (and I don’t read a lot of books I loathe, so mostly, I collect books I love), but I think there is a lot more gray than I’d often like to admit.

I loved Morgan Matson’s first book, Amy & Roger’s Epic Detour, so her second book, Second Chance Summer, has been on my radar for months. When a shiny hardback crossed my path, I practically salivated.

I did enjoy this story – a summer in the life of a girl returning to her lake house with her family after a long hiatus. She left behind some messy romance and friendship situations, and of course they all are waiting for her when she returns – everyone has grown up a bit but nobody has forgotten Taylor’s crimes. Her family is a fun bunch of characters; moody but shy ballerina sister, nerdy fact-spouting brother, a stray dog that is adopted into the fold reluctantly. A romance.

Definitely a book for summer, atmospheric for sure, but not quite atmospheric enough to hide some overexplaining, some undeveloped character traits, some shaky plot bits. I felt like Taylor was trying too hard to be elusive and troubled, creating drama for herself where it would be easier just not to stress. All of her misdeeds occurred at age twelve – at fifteen, all the affected parties acted as if they had been stewing over terrible betrayals for the entire three years of Taylor’s absence. And Taylor’s love interest – literally, the boy next door – has an annoying habit of magically appearing – poof! – every other paragraph or so, popping out from behind counters, lurking in the woods with benign intent… Matson plays off Henry’s Houdini-act as a metaphor at some point along the way, but it was just WAY too convenient to escape my notice.

But despite any surface misgivings, I found this book to slowly move me. Emotionally penetrating. As I read, I found myself shutting the book and putting it aside, reading anything else instead – not because I couldn’t bear to see Henry pull up to the dock with his rowboat at yet another well-timed interval – but because I knew this book was going to hit me hard, at any second. The reason Taylor and her family have returned to the lake house is because her father has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He has three months to live, and he wants to spend it with his family at his favorite place in the world.

I wept. I wept on the bus, without apology. When it was my stop, I folded a page, walked to my apartment and picked up where I left off, and read on, while continually crying.

Maybe I’m letting my emotions sway my opinion here, but as the tragedy unrolled, I began to forgive the sloppy bits. Wouldn’t I be sloppy and underdeveloped and quick to see meaning where there is none if I were Taylor? If I was Taylor’s mother? If I were dying? Maybe the tragedy highlights Matson’s strengths here – her characters are not flawless, not aware of their motives. They are grieving ahead of time, and Matson captures the pain, the earnestness, the guilt, and, most importantly, the care and love they have for each other.

What I wanted was something flawless. What I got was something pretty but with messy edges, something that was hard to read, and tears on the bus.

After hearing about Beth Anne Bauman’s Jersey Angel described as unusually sexy, maybe even TOO salacious for YA? I’m interested. I like to read controversial books, and even though the controversy surrounding the relative “sexiness” seems to have been limited to a few weeks of pre-pub buzz that has long since fizzled out, a quick look at the online reviews for this title on Goodreads or online reveals some VERY upset readers. But they aren’t upset in the way I expected, which isn’t suprising, since I did not find Jersey Angel to be the book I expected either.

Angel is sixteen, a year-round beach dweller. Her mother makes a living renting her two beach houses to tourists, Angel works at her dad’s gas station for pocket change, but that’s not the best part of Angel’s life. Angel lives for the summer, for kicking back with her best friend Inggy, for late night parties on the sand and boat rides and boys. Of course, boys. This is a slice-of-Angel’s-life, and her life, like the plot, is unfocused. Her relationships – friendships or family, sexual or not – drive the story.  Angel is relaxed – no worries about grades, college, life choices, the other things that female YA protagonists are usually stressing over – and tension emerges when the reader starts to wonder if her laid-back attitude might end up coming back around to punish her.

The sex? It is there, but in small doses and with most of the action happening off stage; with all the buzz, I expected a lot more to blush about. The sex that makes it to the page is detailed in a romantic manner, full of moody details of the sand, the water, etc, but Bauman’s descriptions are not starry-eyed. I think in YA, the reader expects sex to be the result of a lot of build up between two particular characters, maybe a first-time incident for one or both parties, and then – Hollywood style – the romance of their relationship and the setting and their LOVE just sweeps away any need for details. This is not the case for Angel. The descriptions here speak of a character who knows what she is doing with her sexuality, knows what she wants with a boy, and likes sex for those reasons, not because it has some larger significance, plot or otherwise. I think this makes readers uncomfortable. Most of the bad reviews written about this novel seem to attend to this discomfort, but strangely, without naming it directly. Instead, reviewers call Angel “superficial,” and “boring,” and most are deeply uncomfortable not with Angel’s sexuality, but that she makes a bad choice in partners and doesn’t get punished. But I don’t think these reviewers just want Angel to be punished for an indiscretion – they want Angel to be punished for not adhering to the code of acceptable YA sexuality. The reactions here feel like an updated version of the 1970s panic over Judy Blume’s Forever…

So unsettling, yes. A book that every reader would feel comfortable handing off to their 12-year-old child? Perhaps not. But I do think Angel’s perspective is unique, the writing evocative, and the mood beachy and sultry and all other things I like about summer.

And contrary to some angry reviewers, I don’t think this book bears much resemblance to that other piece of New Jersey-themed Televised Fiction. However, since I have honestly (Honestly) never seen an episode in my life, I am really just speculating. I think there was a little laundry, but no gym and no tanning, and no mention of hair gel, bleeped out swear words, or anything else that the media has led me to associate with the Jersey Shore.

The Scrapbook of Frankie Pratt by Caroline Preston is a fun way to spend an afternoon. I love stories about college girls who attended women’s schools in the 1950s (see: Mona Lisa Smile); this was a fun, visual indulgence in the era.

Did you like Go Ask Alice? Do you want to read a book that is a deliberately identical book to Go Ask Alice, except with the Internet, prescription pills, and meth? Then you should read Lucy in the Sky. Relevant question: is it possible for a book written in 2011 to be considered “campy?”

I’m not usually a fan of historical fiction for young people because… well… they usually scream “HISTORICAL FICTION FOR YOUNG PEOPLE!” The protagonists are usually too passive, too observant, just watching history pass by. On that note, I really liked The Water Seeker, maybe because Holt gives some of the adult perspectives, too. Plus, I haven’t experienced an Oregon Trail narrative since my elementary school computer lab, so I found the story very interesting.

Jason Myers’s Dead End was one of the most tragically sad, graphically sexual YA books I’ve ever read. And I read a lot of sad, sexy books.

A really depressing porno, basically.

Sometimes I get mad at sci-fi/fantasy books for making me like them. Lish McBride’s Hold Me Closer, Necromancer is one such book. Stupid Sam and his stupid endearing nature. Also, I still kind of like necromancy. Beats vampires and werewolves, anyway…

Ellis has a lot of problem-people in her life – a mother who works midnight shifts as a radio host, a social-climbing best friend who parties too much, a male friend who is in love with a girl who won’t give him the time of day. But she does have one person in her life she can count on, who she can tell everything to, who will always be there for her – her dad, who has been in a coma for years and lives at a long-term care facility. 37 Things I Love (in no particular order) begins when Ellis learns that she might lose that silent presence in her life when her mother is talking about ending life support, and follows Ellis as she tries to fight this decision and learn to cope with tragedies beyond her control.

This is not the kind of book that I would usually pick up to read, but I was quite surprised with what I found. Magoon navigates deftly back and forth between fluffy, teen-y drama (my stupid drunk best friend! Agh!) to intense emotional turmoil (my dad is going to die…), often within a single page. Ellis’s denial, avoidance, sorrow, and rage is all there, but not in a hit-you-over-the-head-with-my-wavering-grasp-on-my-sanity way. It’s subtle. It’s complex. I also appreciated the mix between happy moments and sad – life, for Ellis, doesn’t stop when her father might die. She seems to have adapted to maintaining life even with a dull ache of grief behind her life at this point, and she continues to have triumphant moments, experience personal epiphanies and life-changing moments, and appreciate the people who give her joy – the 37 things she loves. This is a quick read, a fast ride, but the depth of character packed in is pretty amazing.