If there’s one thing that never fails to baffle me, it’s the popularity of teen literature.
You know what I’m talking about. Those hefty paperbacks that fall somewhere in the science-fiction-romance-angst genre, with cheap bindings blazoned with shirtless men and all assortments of made-up symbols.
Quite honestly, I despise those books. They’re like dollar romance paperbacks- the authors simply take advantage of the fluffy daydreams of teenagers and middle-aged mothers. I went through my phase of loving those books, gobbling up everything including (Lord forgive me) Twilight. But I blame that on being a confused little seventh grader, and pride myself for quickly moving onto higher material — a good mix of Terry Pratchett, Bronte and Dickens.
Which is why I am so confused and disgusted and embarrassed for what I am currently hiding in my Northface backpack. In fact, I would rather not discuss it. But I’ve made many confessions on this blog before, and I believe it is time for another.
Yes. I do have a trashy teen novel in there. Complete with a tattooed, shirtless man and a quote from Stephenie Meyer.
I am not proud of this. I do not condone such behavior in other impressionable young adults. But I simply can’t help it.
Only a week ago, the epidemic had hit my friend Mattie. She posted on Facebook, admitting to the fact that she was hooked on Cassandra Clare’s “The Mortal Instruments” series. It has everything that you could love, or hate, in a fantasy novel: a love triangle (square? pentagon?), dark magic, fairies and fallen angels.
I agreed to buy the newest book for Mattie after her slight obsession caused her mom to ban her from buying anymore. The only caveat was that she would loan me the first book in the series: City of Bones. I was expecting a quick, easy read that would serve as a nice break from the huge novels I’ve been ploughing through recently.
I was not expecting addiction. I was not expecting to pick the book up and have physical difficulties sliding the bookmark into its spine and putting it back on the shelf. I was not expecting to quickly attach myself to characters, audibly gasping when a plot twist suddenly appeared.
In short, I judged a book by its cover. I let the shirtless men and the weird tattoos and the quotes by questionable authors throw me off. Underneath the terrible packaging, Clare is a surprisingly witty author. She weaves a story in subtle ways, letting the characters develop naturally. I would recommend her books to any reader.
But I would also recommend to Clare that she get a new cover artist.
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