I have been reading so many books this week that it’s hard to figure out which one is worth blogging about. My favourite has to be Patrick Gale’s ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ though I’m enjoying Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Wind-up Bird Chronicles’. But these are both very adult books which I’d be unlikely to recommend to many people under eighteen. Which set me thinking about what is it that really makes a book ‘young adult’ rather than ‘adult’. I intended this blog to mostly be about books for younger readers, like the ones I write. But the water is feeling very muddied today.
The book I am working on at the moment keeps fudging the line between categories. One day it will strike me as very junior fiction when the characters start having temper tantrums, the next day it feels more YA as they start negotiating their differences and then I hit some dark and slippery patch and the story becomes disturbingly adult. Not that I am getting much work done on it. When I think of this particular story I feel like my brain is squeezed so hard that nothing creative can spill out onto the page. I think it’s proving to be the most difficult book I’ve written to date. Shouldn’t books get easier to write once you’ve written a few? This will be my ninth work of fiction and my eleventh published book but still I’m struggling.
The more you know, the more you realise you don’t know.