Every time students suggested debate topics in my English classes, I’d take a deep breath. Some were expected (legalizing marijuana—now a reality in Canada, so, there goes that topic!), lowering the drinking age (it’s 19 years old in Ontario; lower than 21 in the U.S.), raising the driving age (are teens too reckless to wield such a dangerous weapon?). Some were just fun (“Schools need paper towels in the bathrooms, not hand dryers!”). Others were topics I would never touch in class. Abortion was one of them.

Abortion is legal in Canada, and given classroom debate topics were about arguing against the status quo, I couldn’t do it. I have very strong pro-choice opinions. A woman’s body is her own. End. Of. Story. What’s happening in the U.S. with the revocation of Roe vs. Wade saddens me. (And makes me happy to live in Canada). Can I acknowledge there’s another side? Yes, I’ve heard their arguments. But at no time, in my class, could I be objective or dispassionate enough about this hot-button issue to clearly evaluate their debate or research skills—what I was actually supposed to be teaching them. 

I am all about teaching social justice, diversity, equity and inclusion in the classroom, and I did it all the time. However, getting into a debate with students about the conception life and the meaning of death was not something I wanted to wade into.

So when I came across Dan Solomon’s The Fight for Midnight (Flux, 2023), I hesitated. The YA novel is based on real-life events. It’s set in Texas in 2013 during a fraught political filibuster where politician Wendy Davis was trying to stop restrictive and harmful pro-life legislation. Protagonist Alex Collins—whose had a rough year after losing is best friend, getting bullied and has been sentenced to community service—finds himself at the state legislature when a girl he’s been crushing on calls him for support. He’s never given much thought to abortion one way or another, and he honestly doesn’t even know what side he’s on. 

This is what made me pause. Could I read a story where a character might be convinced of something so fundamentally opposed to my personal beliefs? Reading is supposed to open us up to new ideas, to allow us to see new possibilities. We see new life, new stories, new ways of thinking—shouldn’t I carry that optimism into this novel as well? But how could I enjoy being in the head of a teen whose ideas might be incompatible with mine? 

Dan Solomon surprised me. He reminded me exactly what YA lit is supposed to do. Alex doesn’t know what to believe; he has to hear both sides to make up his own mind. And I had to let him. But why I was able to “let him”, was because Solomon wrote both sides with care and compassion. Solomon himself supports my point of view; he makes that clear in an Author’s Note. But he doesn’t demonize the other side. And that’s where the magic happens. We can disagree—even vehemently—with each other, but we can do so with empathy. I may not understand why old (white) men in power feel the need to control women’s bodies (are they funding social services for the children the women must bear even if they can’t afford them or properly look after them? Are they stepping up to adopt all those children whose “lives they’ve saved?”). But I don’t need to demonize them. They are not the devil. In my opinion, they are misguided, yes, but still human. 

Teens need that perspective. Teens are often reactionary and idealistic, a combination that can lead to emotionally entrenched opinions. This isn’t necessarily wrong, but it doesn’t hurt to remind them that they could take a minute to stop and think. 

Alex does that in Solomon’s book. Alex has a lot to think about, and Solomon shows us his thought process with so much compassion and understanding that it renewed my faith in tackling difficult topics with teens. 

Life happens to all of us. Teens included. YA literature is a most amazing way of helping them (and us adults) figure it all out. 

Okay, at first glance, I’m not sure I’m the best person to write about refreshing parental support in YA novels when, well, my debut novel, Evangeline’s Heaven, featured Lucifer as a dad. His poor daughter thought she had unconditional love from her father; she learned some very harsh lessons on her journey through the Seven Heavens. 

Then there’s the difficult parent-child relationship I dropped Lyra into in my upcoming YA dystopian, Amaranth. She loves her parents, her parents love her—but they also keep her isolated and on the run for nine years. It’s a tough, lonely life for her, made harsher when her parents contract a devastating plague and she has only three days to save them. 

A lot of drama and conflict in YA literature does come from rocky relationships with moms, dads and other parental figures. Often we see the hurt they cause their kids—on purpose or inadvertent—as the driving force behind the growing up that our protagonists have to do. Alternatively, we don’t see them at all. Parents are just gone. Dead or disappeared or just taken off. Their absence leaves a gaping hole in the lives of the characters we’re inhabiting. 

Yet there’s another breed of YA parents that I was reminded of recently when I read Benjamin Alire Sáenz’s 2012 prize-winning novel Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. On one level, the story is about 15-year-old Aristotle, quiet and introverted, as he  befriends Dante, a whimsical, heart-on-his-sleeve intellectual. As Mexican-American teens in Texas in 1987, they have to negotiate their racial and ethnic identities, as well as their growing awareness of their own sexuality and love for each other. 

But Ari also deals with the struggles of his parents. His dad, a Vietnam vet, is silent and reserved, traits that Ari resents as he tries to get to know his dad. And his mom, a deeply loving, strict parent, also keeps her secrets. It’s a recipe for destructive angst—yet Alire Sáenz instead opens up the lines of communication among the three of them. It is a beautiful emotional unfolding to read. Ari comes to learn his parents are flawed and human, just as they learn how to help Ari from living inside his own tormented head. 

Then there are Dante’s parents, younger than Ari’s, and more open. They are affectionate and respectful and, even though they, too, are flawed, they are good and decent people. 

And all four parents love and support their sons’ burgeoning relationship. There isn’t just love among these families; there’s honouring of each as individuals. That Ari is as welcome into Dante’s family as Dante is welcome into Ari’s makes the emotional arcs even stronger. 

In one musing discussion about their families, Dante admits he’s crazy about his parents. The comment surprises Ari—isn’t it uncool to like your parents?—but over the course of the novel, we see how Ari learns the very same lesson. 

Alire Sáenz came out with a sequel, Aristostle and Dante Dive Into the Waters of the World in 2021. Though almost a decade between the books, the sequel picks up immediately where the original left off. It expands our connection to Ari and Dante and their parents, as the boys start their senior year. Yet again, Alire Sáenz treats the relationship among all six with beautiful reverence. 

And the books were beautiful to read. It was a refreshing reminder of the positive influence parents can be. They’re not just a plot device, or an instigator; they can be fully fleshed out, warm, tender, loving, flawed characters in their own right. That serves our protagonists—and by extension us, the reader, very, very well.  

Unconditional love does, indeed, exist. 

At the outset, this question seems silly. There are no official qualifications to write young adult literature; as long as you can put a good story on the page and get it into the hands of the readers, then, yes, you’re qualified. Age, race, gender, ethnicity, none of these factors predict the quality of your story (though, yes, sadly, they may predict your success in getting your book out there). And, given that I have one YA novel already published and a second one coming out this year, I even have the evidence to prove that I can write YA. 

But 2024 is a milestone year for me. In a few weeks, I will turn 50. A half-century. Most likely more than half my life gone already. To be frank, my age has never bothered me, and honestly, it doesn’t now, either. 50 is 50. But 50 is a long way from 17, or 18, the ages of my protagonists. I was much closer to being a teen when I was in my 30s, or even 40s, but wow, 50 makes adolescence seem like it was a million moons ago. Are my own recollections of teen-hood even relevant anymore? Has too much changed in the decades since I survived my teen years? Am I out of touch??

This is especially true since I no longer teach high school. For almost two decades, I was around teenagers every day. So yeah, if my own experiences were out of date, at least I was learning the what’s-new every day with my students. I was in the know (as much as any teacher can be, really). But now? Maybe not? 

For a while, I banked on my own kids, teens themselves, and their friends. But in this milestone year, my oldest will age out of her teens; she’ll turn 20, and my youngest will turn 18, becoming a legal adult. As of June, I won’t have any connection to high schools. 

And my husband and I are also celebrating our 25^th wedding anniversary this spring. A heartfelt milestone (I am a romantic at heart, after all) but the blush of first love, the exhilaration of new relationships is long in the past. I wouldn’t trade what I have for the world, but well, after 25 years of marriage, plus raising two kids, and living life as a responsible adult for so long, can I still connect with my characters? 

To be clear, my question of “qualification” isn’t a fear. It’s a genuine curiosity. I know what I wanted as a teen when I picked up a book. I knew what my students wanted, and what my own daughters wanted. But now that adolescence is passing me by, can I still appreciate and understand what’s relevant to my readers? 

The answer, I decided, was yes. I suspect I’ll mess up the lingo, or not get technology habits right. I’ll stumble over memes, or the latest trends. But at the heart of every YA book, is the heart of a teenager who just wants to be loved. The push and pull of independence and acceptance, of searching for self and searching for family, of a sense of belonging and a sense of adventure is all the same. People are people are people. Teens have a distinct view of the world they’re just learning about, and each of their experiences shapes that world view. Having a book (or dozens) in which those worldviews are reflected can go a long way in helping teen readers cope with the tsunami of changes happening in their lives. What they most need from their YA stories, then, is empathy. 

I have that in spades. 

So yes, whether I’m 40, 50, or 100, I think I can still burrow into the heart of a teenager who is doing their damnest to make sense of their reality. 

Besides, I reminded myself, it’s never about the author; it’s always about the story. 

At the start of each new year, I like to sit down with my journal and my tarot cards and think about what my theme for that year is going to be. It doesn’t have to be big or earth-shattering or extraordinary…it’s just a word or phrase that sums up things I want to work on in the new year, areas I want to grow in, fears I want to conquer, or aspects of myself I want to better understand. At the end of each year, I do the same ritual, only instead of setting a theme, I reflect on the theme that’s guided me for the past twelve months.

Since we’re nearing the end of 2023, it’s reflection time, and wow, what a year it’s been. Back in 2022, when my debut YA fantasy novel Reign Returned was published, my theme was “Breaking Through.” I wanted to break through my fears of leaving behind a successful medical practice and financial security, get that book into the world, and begin the process of establishing myself as an author. Being a debut author is a lot of fun, but it’s also incredibly challenging because you don’t know what you don’t know. I welcomed the opportunities that came my way, learned from my mistakes, and headed into 2023 with eyes wide open.

My theme for 2023 was an important, if not particularly fun, one: “Change My Paradigms.” I have always been my own worst enemy. I like routine and predictability and security, and NONE of those things are part of being an author and publishing books. It’s been a massive internal shift to learn to live with uncertainty, with the knowledge that hard work doesn’t automatically equal stellar sales, and that so much of what counts as “success” in my chosen profession is completely out of my hands. I spent much of 2023 in tears, banging my head against a wall, disillusioned with the publishing industry, missing the dependability of a regular paycheck, and wishing I’d been born with a different passion other than sharing stories. 

But I also learned so much about myself. I have a better understanding of what fears come from me versus what fears were instilled in me by my family of origin. I faced my weaknesses and the darkest parts of my soul and rather than trying to get rid of them, I started the process of learning to work with them instead of against them. The work is by no means complete and aspects of changing certain paradigms may take me a lifetime to achieve, but forewarned is forearmed and the unknown terrifies me far more than hard work (I’m a Capricorn, after all). 

Oddly enough, the words that brought me the most comfort during 2023 didn’t come from a book…they came from a song in a musical episode of Star Trek: Strange New Worlds. I shared some of the lyrics on social media a while back, but I think they bear repeating and can be read like a poem (even better, go listen to the song “How Would That Feel” by Christina Chong):

Did I hear that right?
Did she just shine a spotlight

On her innermost feelings

Like it’s no big deal

Say whatever, whenever you like

You’d presume with all my mastery

To pursue flights of fancy—easy

Who am I kidding, I’ve never found that part of me

‘Cause I’m designed

To color inside the lines

Cool and methodical

Way too responsible 

I can’t help it

Sometimes I peek through a keyhole

And see people happy

I admit

It might be time 

To change my paradigm

If only I 

Can let go of the wheel

My fear replaced with total faith

I’m fiercely free and really real

Flying blind…

How would that feel?

The only way to become more comfortable flying blind is by doing it—closing your eyes and going for it. And let me tell you, it’s absolutely terrifying. Doing things you’ve never done in ways you’ve never done them and taking risks and leaps of faith makes my hands shake as I type this. But I wouldn’t trade growth for anything, because I know all too well the consequences of choosing comfortable stagnation over a scary but potentially amazing unknown. 

Thank you, 2023, for the lessons learned and the chances to more fully become the person I want to be. It’s never too late, and you’re never too old, too young, too anything to change your own paradigms. And, if you’re curious as to what my theme for 2024 is going to be, I’ll share it in next month’s blog post. Until then, here’s to the words that bring us comfort, that sentence or stanza that makes us feel seen, helps us feel like we belong, and reminds us we’re not alone in our journey.

Christmases, after my parents separated when I was 16, were brutal. My sister, at college, chose not to come home. I’d visit my dad in the mornings, then my mother and I would drive three hours to see her family, with whom we were not close. Only, we’d drive home that night. I never knew whether that was Mom’s choice or we simply hadn’t been invited to stay. Neither scenario would have surprised me. 

So I was particularly excited one year when Mom said we were staying home. I may have been among “family” the past few holidays, but since it never felt like it, I was looking forward to Christmas dinner being just Mom and me. We didn’t always get along, but she and I were it. 

Or not. 

Mom had other ideas. She was renting our basement apartment to a young couple who wanted to host their entire family for Christmas. Mom offered them our kitchen and our dining room, oh, and we were invited. I was a “guest” at someone else’s family holiday dinner in my own home. 

I could not get away from the table fast enough, never having felt more alone in my life. 

It’s why I came to lean on “found family” tropes my YA novels of choice. Anything with best friends or new groups of friends, or families of friends, anything so I could feel like there was hope of belonging. 

The “found family” trope remains a favourite of mine, but I especially loved Michael Gray Bulla’s If I can Give You That (2023). He writes of a trans boy finding friends, finding a boyfriend, finding love amidst his mother’s worsening mental-health condition and the estrangement of his father. I had always focused on the “found” part of “found family”, but Bulla’s book reminded me of the “family” part, too. Not every real-life family situation will resolve into mutual understanding and respect, and it was often easy for me to dismiss those plot twists as too contrived. But Bulla’s protagonist Gael learns not just to lean on his new friends, but also how to become a family with his own parents. Bulla’s writing feels real and relatable; there’s no magic cure for Gael’s struggles, but there’s a recognition of how to rely on both the “found” and the “family” parts of my favourite trope. 

It’s a natural development for teens to reach outside of their family, seeking comfort, approval and solace among friends, even with the most caring, supportive parents. Teens are asserting their independence, easing out of the nest, if you will. Obviously this can be rife for conflict—friends, peers, who are going through their own shit, aren’t always the most stable support for a teen—but the intensity with which teen friendships are shaped speaks of their importance nonetheless. During holidays, like Christmas, which are traditionally meant to be for family (as in blood relatives)—not friends—teens, like I was, can feel isolated. But reminding ourselves that found family can also include “real” family, at least to some degree, is important. 

Because, in the end, it’s not about whom or how we’re related, but to whom and how we feel connected. 

YA literature can’t exist without YA authors but it’s hard to get in the game. Jen and I understand. We’ve been there. We still ARE there! But there are days when it feels like we’re all alone–like everyone else is doing it, and doing it better. You know what I mean, don’t you?

Scrolling through our social media platform of choice, we’ve all experienced this:

Another writer: “Just landed the agent of my dreams, and so excited to be rep’d by #thebestbookagentagencyever!”

My response: “OMG, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!” (insert heart emoji, clapping emoji, celebration emoji, star emoji)

I then repeat one of my favorite affirmations from yoga class: There’s plenty for everyone, and this includes me.

Another writer: “Mind BLOWN, cannot believe #1NYT best-selling author is going to blurb my debut book!”

My response: “That’s incredible! SO happy for you!” (insert smiley emoji, celebration emoji, heart emoji, clapping emoji)

There’s plenty for everyone, and this includes me.

Another writer: “My book earned out and is going back for a second printing! Also, vague but exciting publishing news I can’t WAIT to share!”

My response: “How amazing! So proud of you!” (insert clapping emoji, heart emoji, face with hearts emoji, celebration emoji)

There’s plenty for everyone, and this includes me.

The above scenario is fictional (mostly), but we’ve all been there. We live in a hyper-connected world where we’re able to know what’s happening almost as fast as it happens. And, thanks to social media, we’re able to be acutely aware of what’s happening in a lot of people’s lives. As of 2023, the average person on Facebook has 338 friends. The average person on Instagram follows 150 people, and the average Twitter user follows approximately 700 people. That adds up to 1,180 people you’re regularly getting life updates from, and while obviously we aren’t close friends with or deeply invested in everyone we follow, that’s still a large number of people to hear about on a daily basis.

When it comes to social media, research also indicates that most people share significantly more positive posts than negative ones, and there’s evidence linking social media use to sadness, envy, depression, and loneliness. Thankfully, there’s been some movement towards being more genuine and sharing how you’re really doing online, but it’s not the norm yet, which means every time you log on to a particular platform, you’re seeing hundreds of exciting, news-worthy, celebratory, #humblebrag posts about the successes other people are having…successes you desperately want for yourself.

So, how you offer genuine support to those you’re connected with without becoming exhausted, bitter, resentful, or jealous of their successes? Here are things that have worked for me as I’ve navigating the business of being a writer:

Assess your motivations

Are you following someone because you’re genuinely interested in their content? Because you know and like them in real life? Because you hope they will buy your book and tell people about it? I’ve become selective about the people I follow, and I tend to follow them after engaging with them in some other way, like through a workshop or writing group, which leads me to my next suggestion…

Nurture connection, not competition

Engage in activities where you meet and interact with other writers, either in-person or virtually. Attend writing workshops, join a writing group, enroll in an online class, and connect with people before following them on social media. I’m much more excited for someone’s success when I know more about them than just what they post on social media. If I know your dog struggles with seizures and your husband loves woodworking and your sister sings in a church choir and your cat knocked over your favorite plant and your granddaughter just got her first tooth and, and, and…you’re not just someone racking up successes, you’re a person whose life has highs, lows, good days, bad days, and everything in between. I can relate to that.

Follow people outside of your writing genre

This might be seen as a cheat, or it might just be a good mental health practice, but sometimes it’s nice to follow people who don’t do what you do. It can be much easier to be excited for someone who’s won an award when it’s not an award you were competing for. It’s super easy for me to be genuinely excited when my memoir-writing friends have a major success because I don’t write memoirs. I also follow a lot of animal-focused organizations, bird watchers, and nature lovers because they have nothing to do with my job as an author and add beauty to my timeline.

Remember that another author’s success does NOT equal your failure

It’s perfectly normal and completely okay to feel sad, disappointed, or let down when you don’t get something you really wanted, like an agent, a publishing deal, a particular blurb, or having your book turned into a film. There are times you can’t just stop that pang of jealousy or that less-than-kind thought. But if you stop there, you’re feeding into the competition mentality. When you genuinely value the people in your author circle and appreciate the relationships you form beyond hoping they repost about your latest book, it’s so much easier to feel authentically excited over their success. It might take some mental rewiring, but you can learn to see something as good for another person without it being bad for you. Someone else’s success does not equal your failure. When it comes to being a writer, the mantra There’s plenty for everyone, and this includes me could be rewritten as There are plenty of readers for every book out there, and this includes mine.

I’d love to hear how you foster connection over competition and how you protect your mental health across social media platforms. Let me know, and here’s to being in this together!

When Katie and I were chatting about “siblings” as the theme for our November posts, I immediately thought of Flowers in the Attic (1979) by Virginia (V.C.) Andrews. It’s a story of four children, Cathy, the protagonist, age 12 when the novel begins, her older brother Chris, age 14, and twin siblings, Carrie and Cory, age 4, who, after the death of their father are imprisoned in an attic by their cruel grandmother and greedy mother intent on regaining her vast inheritance. They are locked away for years, and though they are given clothes, toys and books, they are starved for love, affection, sunshine, fresh air and even food. The four of them become a family of their own; Chris and Cathy take on the role of mom and dad to the twins and the two older kids love the twins like they were their own children. 

So, yes, I thought, recalling the story more than 30 years after I read it, this novel is about the importance of siblings in the lives of teens—especially illustrated, as with the best of every YA novel, in the most extreme, intense and shocking story. (Ahem, Hunger Games, anyone? Where we read about government-sanctioned death of innocent children?)

 But anyone alive and reading in the ‘80s also knows Flowers in the Attic was subject to ban after ban after ban. It’s no surprise that the recent cadre of overzealous anti-book crusaders have ensured the story stays hidden. You know, like the children. It was (and continues to be banned) for a plethora of reasons: the four children are a product of incest between their mother and her half-uncle, her father’s much, much younger half-brother. Then there’s the clear-eyed commentary from Cathy as she grows from a child into a young woman, who, among many other things, is also a sexual being. This, it seems, worries those puritans out there, as society always tries to control, shame or vilify a woman’s sexuality. Oh, and a rape scene between brother and sister. 

It’s heady stuff. Dark themes of abuse, neglect, greed and guilt are heavy. And incredibly engaging, intriguing and thought-provoking.

It’s why I remembered it all these years later, the first book that came to mind even though I have read hundreds of YA novels in the years since. But the reasons why I remembered the story made me stop to think.

I didn’t remember it for its incest, rape, or even sexuality. I didn’t remember it for all the details of the children’s abuse and neglect. I remembered it for the love. I remembered Chris and Cathy’s struggle to step up for their absent mother to act as parents to the twins. I remembered Chris and Cathy opening up to each other, for lifesaving emotional and mental support. I remember the extraordinary lengths to which the four of them went to make the most of their horrific situation. I remembered their resilience. 

And this is what the anti-book crusaders want to take away. For decades, people feared what would happen to children if they got their hands on books with “bad ideas”. They still do—hence the current censorship crisis. 

Yet I’m living proof that there was no basis for that fear. I read it as a young teenager. I was enthralled. I read all the sequels. Yet I did not turn to incest in my own life, nor did I lock my own children away. I did not turn into a religious zealot, the way their grandmother was, nor did I ever turn my back on my own children’s needs. 

If anything, I became more empathetic. Maybe not because of this one book. Maybe because I’m a reader in general. But I learned how vile people can be—the truth lives in the real world—and I learned how to understand and show empathy for those who have been abused. Why should we shun Cathy and Chris for their errors in judgment or “sins” when they themselves were appallingly abused? Let me be clear: I am not condoning rape or abuse of any kind. But I am promoting understanding. We need to ask why the characters in our pages do what they do. We don’t have to agree. We don’t have to like it. But it helps us prepare for when we try to understand people in our lives. When it counts.

 Because ultimately, Chris and Cathy are fiction. They’re not real.

 Couldn’t we use our collective fear and revulsion to stop abuse of this kind—or any kind—in the real world instead? 

Yet we can’t stop what we don’t know. 

Flowers in the Attic showed me, a sheltered, middle-class kid, the monsters that are out there. 

More importantly, Flowers in the Attic showed me, a sheltered, middle-class kid, the love that is out there, too.