Isaiah Austin was the last person to make me cry. And let me tell you, I hardly ever do. I’ve got about five inches of deadened emotion wrapped around my heart that not even The Fault In Our Stars (film AND book) could manage to break through.
20-year-old Isaiah recently finished playing college basketball for the Baylor Bears. He was one of their most promising stars, a first-round prospect in the 2014 NBA draft.
A few days before his inauguration into the NBA, Isaiah found out he had Marfan syndrome, a genetic disorder that affects the body’s connective tissue. He was told that he had to completely stop playing basketball otherwise he would die. In one fell swoop, all of Isaiah’s plans came crashing down on him. It is, in my opinion, one of the year’s biggest public heartbreaks. After making the announcement that he would be placing his big NBA dreams on the shelf, reporters asked what would be next for him.
He put on a smile and said, with unbelievably gracious humility: “Everything.”
I won’t be surprised if one day not too far from today, Isaiah’s story, brimming with overwhelming hope and inspiration, gets penned down, published and distributed in bookstores around the globe. It is, without a doubt, the stuff bestsellers are made of. The question is: will the literary world let you read it?
Last month, Slate released an article called Against YA, which sparked an interesting debate among writers and readers alike. Ruth Graham, the author of the article, argues that adults (the 21 above demographic) should be embarrassed to read Young Adult.
In her words:
The largest group of buyers in that survey—accounting for a whopping 28 percent of all YA sales—are between ages 30 and 44. That’s my demographic, which might be why I wasn’t surprised to hear this news. I’m surrounded by YA-loving adults, both in real life and online. Today’s YA, we are constantly reminded, is worldly and adult-worthy. That has kept me bashful about expressing my own fuddy-duddy opinion: Adults should feel embarrassed about reading literature written for children.
My foray into reading began with pocket books – Nancy Drew, Sweet Valley Kids, Goosebumps and the like. After which, I gradually worked my way up to Chick Lit. When I hit my teens, my best friend introduced me to YA. Since then, I’ve managed to jump through a variety of genres and have consequently, fallen in love with all sorts of books – some serious, some a lot less so. I have managed to build what I consider to be a fairly meaningful ‘text life’ because I dabbled in a little bit of everything, without someone telling me what I should or should not read.
The process of building my own reading preferences has opened up plenty of interesting conversations. Like: I think Patrick Ness’ Chaos Walking trilogy is the best dystopian series on the market today. Or: I still don’t know how to appreciate Haruki Murakami. I liked how Gone Girl ended, have a case against Augustus Waters and am currently trying to finish The Art of Fielding.
Also: I still read (and love) YA with absolutely no remorse.
Two weeks ago, I asked the students in my Lit 1 class to tell me about their favorite book. One by one, they listed off different titles. Some mentioned Paulo Coelho novels. A lot cited the works of John Green. When it was his turn, a boy named Rence, looked me in the eye and said, confidently: “Twilight.” Half the class snickered as I moved on to the next person.
I regret it now, in hindsight. That was a teachable moment and I had completely missed out on the chance to use it.
What I should have said was: that’s okay. I don’t like it but that’s just my personal opinion. My Creative Writing mentor, one of my favorite professors, who is a published author and has a degree in Harvard, loves that trilogy with uncensored abandon. No one should have to make you feel bad for what you like.
I’m staring at my bookshelf now and while it is a treasure trove for some of my most cherished stories, it also serves as home to titles that I didn’t really take to. Both consume my shelves, like yin and yang, and both belong there. The great ones are there for me to come back to when I miss them. The less great ones are there to remind me of how my literary standards were shaped. Ultimately, I am an advocate of Read Everything. In the end, good literature will compel you and bad literature will help cultivate what you know and what you like.
If a book brings you a step closer to joy or enlightenment then love it and keep reading. Read everything, read anything. Cultivate your own filter for what’s good and what’s bad.
Hopefully when you’re done with one book, you can put it down and ask yourself the same thing that was asked of Isaiah Austin.
“So what’s next?”
And with the same optimism, knowing there is endless potential in literature and that there is wisdom to be found in traipsing genres, you’ll answer just the same.
Everything.
