One of the most common complaints I hear as a librarian is "why don't books have a rating system?" While I always manage to nod politely at the patron's distress over sex/swearing/violence (SSV) in books, my inner state is far more agitated. This question tends to irritate my inner adolescent ire—that is, it makes me want to push back in an irrational manner (including eye rolling) because the idea of a book rating system is ridiculous to me. 

People like to draw a connection between movies and books. "If movies can be rated," the argument goes, "then books can be, too." The connection isn't entirely relevant, however. There is a huge difference between reviewing and rating the roughly 500 movies released per year and the 50,000 or so books. Plus, movies make tons of money. Books, not so much. Sure, there are bestsellers, but the film industry ($479.2 billion) generates significantly more revenue than the publishing industry ($29 billion). Who is going to pay for all this book rating?

Then there is the impact between reading something and looking at something. Likely this is an individual response that is influenced by both life experience and brain chemistry, but for me, if I watch a sex scene or something violent in a movie, it stays with me far longer than if I read one in a book. Plus, there's the fact that if you don't like to read sex scenes, there is always skimming, or just flipping the page until you get past the part you don't like. It's much harder to "skim" a movie.

To me, though, the biggest difference between an offending movie and an offending book is the ease with which you can stop interacting with it. If you're at a movie theater and you don't like something, you have to physically leave the building. If you're reading a book and you don't like something, you just have to put the book down.

But books being rated because movies are rated is really not the point. Movies are rated so that parents can know what is appropriate for their families to watch, not to protect adults from adult content. In essence, where a book is shelved and how it is marketed (which is sort of the same thing) is already a rating system of a sort: novels in the adult section were written with an adult audience in mind; novels in the teen section were written for young adults (which is roughly 14-18, but sometimes 12-17). If you are an adult person browsing in the adult section, you are likely to come across many books that contain violence, sexuality, or swearing, because adult lives contain these things.

Of course, there is an enormous debate right now, as YA literature becomes more and more popular, over what makes a book one that is "good" for teenagers to read. This is based on the difference between reading level (word difficulty and word count, sentence structure, writing style) and content (who and what the story is about). You can have entirely filthy or violent novels written at a teenage reading level, but the content might keep them in the adult section. The argument centers on one's interpretation of the word "good," and there are so many levels or meanings of goodness that it is impossible to decide for an entire group. You (the parent) need to be involved in helping your teenager (the individual) with this choice. Do you really want to hand that responsibility over to someone else?

But let's put aside the YA lit discussion (as it could be an entire post itself!) and just focus on adults. (It is always adults who ask me about a book rating system anyway.) What is considered offensive varies widely between readers. The level of SSV one is sensitive to is individual. For me, the line falls between whether the SSV is included just to have some SSV in the story, or because it is inherently necessary to the plot, character development, or major themes. Let's take sex as a starting point. There are bajillions of novels written every year with a plot that is engineered to get the characters in bed so that the author can write the sex scenes. Choose any bodice-ripper novel and that will be your reading experience. There are also plenty of novels that include sex scenes, but with the purpose of exploring how it changes the character—what he or she might learn, how she might change, what was right and what was not. It's not the point of the story. It's just part of the story. (Like, you know: real life. Where people have sex, among doing other things.) The novel Atonement​ is one I would put in this category. Yes, it's got a fairly explicit sex scene, but it's also got explorations of war, choice, love, creativity, maturing, and regret. The sex scene is just part of it. I read it more than a decade ago and I am still thinking about it (the book, not the sex scene).

I don't read bodice rippers because I think they are emotionally lazy and entirely unrealistic. They are written with the goal of titillation, and that isn't an experience I want from reading. I do read books like Atonement because they are written with the goal of enlightenment or understanding or the sharing of a human experience I couldn't experience otherwise, and that is what I want from reading.

I can hear many of my smart, thoughtful friends objecting and saying "but you can still experience those things in books that don't have SSV." That is true, you can. But (for me), the presence of SSV doesn't negate the wisdom or truth that is also there. It entirely depends upon the author's intent. The key is knowing what level of SSV you are comfortable with—and then putting the book down if it is too much for you.

But that is the wonderful thing about books: there is a book for everyone. There are dozens and dozens of books for everyone. If you like bodice rippers, read them! If you like mystery series with 37 books about a detective, read every single one. If you like books without any SSV, there are dozens to be found. Maybe that is why there are 100 times more new books than movies every year: because reading is a myriad experience involving individual choice.

And that is why I will always be against books being rated.

Reading, even though it's usually done sitting still, is not a passive activity. It's highly active, involving thought and choice. You arrive at your reading delivery system, be it the library or Amazon or a book store, and you have to look. You have to pick up a book and read the summary. You have to look at the cover and think what can I learn about this book from those images? You have to flip through and maybe read a few sentences to get an idea of the writer's voice. Even better, you can arrive there already informed. Read the New York Times Book Review, the "Best Books of the Month" series on Amazon, or a few book blogs. Ask your friends what they read, or your mother or your sister or your neighbor. Or a librarian. Keep a list of books you want to read.

Maybe most importantly: don't be afraid. To try something new. Or to question yourself—why do books with swearing bother you? Or even to challenge yourself: can you read something with an SSV level you might not be comfortable with by looking around that to the story? On the other hand, never be afraid to say this book isn't for me. If you try something with an SSV level that makes you uncomfortable, instead of getting annoyed that a panel of book raters didn't warn you beforehand, just move on. Take the book back to the library. Take it back to the book store where you bought it and see if they'll let you do an exchange. Leave it for a stranger to find in a train station. Then move on to the next one. 

Lazy readers need a rating system. Readers who want only their version of the world confirmed in books need a rating system. Readers who don't want to be actively engaged, just passively, in reading. Fearful readers. I know—that might sound harsh. But it is also true. Wanting someone else to decide what book is right for me is a fear-based decision.

I don't want someone I don't know to tell me what is "good" to read. I don't want to be responsible for telling anyone else what is "good." (Except, of course, my kids.) I do want to choose, basing my reading choices on the reading experience I enjoy best, not an arbitrary count of F words. I can say what is good only for me, and I am the only one responsible for what I put in my brain. Luckily, my brain also has the ability to choose. To consider and savor, to reject and move on.

We adult readers don't need a rating system because we ourselves are the raters of what we read, and we rate a book by whether or not we keep reading it.

I was buying some fabric today (I must finish Nathan’s quilt this week, as the quilter I use is having a sale; nothing like 15% off to get you motivated!), and I could hear the store clerks talking in the back. One of them was telling the other about the amazing breakfast burrito she’d had that morning, and the other one was like, “Ugg, I hate anything like that for breakfast. Nothing salty or spicy. I only like sweet things in the morning.”

I had to chuckle and nod my head, even though she couldn’t see (or hear) me. Start the day off with sweetness has been my life motto for as long as I can remember. I try to not go overboard—I’m not having cake for breakfast. (Usually. Although, fruit pie or apple crisp is totally acceptable breakfast food, yes?) But honey in my oatmeal, hot chocolate in my mug, or at the very least some orange juice. I can eat eggs, but I don’t love them. (I wish they tasted the way they look like they taste.) I like a sweet breakfast.

But here’s the deal. In October, my hamstrings started hurting when I ran. Only when I ran, at first. I finished the two little races I had signed up for (the library 5k and the 2 mile fundraiser for Kaleb’s school) and then I gave myself some time off. First I didn’t run for two entire weeks, but my legs still hurt. All the not-running (and, hence, not stretching) had made them tight, too. After I tried again, my hamstrings didn’t just hurt when I was running. Instead, they hurt if I sat too long. When they flare up, it feels like someone is injecting them with some kind of molten acid. So I took longer and longer breaks, and they just didn’t get any better.

Sure, I exercised a bit. But seriously: I hate the gym. I like to run not exactly because I like to exercise, but because I like to be outside, going somewhere and experiencing nature. Forty-five minutes on the elliptical is mental torture to me. It’s just so boring. So I let exercising sort of slip out of my life.

And started gaining weight.

I now weigh 15 pounds more than I did in October. Fifteen pounds. That’s a lot. And really, I’m not doing that self-hatred, self-shaming thing. I just don’t like how I feel in this new, softer, chubbier body. I don’t like how my clothes feel or how my face looks. I don’t like jiggling.

So finally I decided to do something about it.

I am finally going to a good physical therapist to get my legs happy again. (It is a slow process, but on the other hand, my back hurts less than it has in years.) I’m making myself go to the gym even though I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns. I’ve been lifting weights and going to the sculpting class at the gym.

But it’s also really hard for me to lose weight. Ever since I turned thirty and my thyroid got unhappy, I struggle. If I’m running, I can maintain pretty well. But to actually lose weight? It’s a struggle. A two-pound loss in a month is a success for me. So, in addition to turning up the cardio, I decided I needed to give up sugar.

Because during all those months of not-running, I’ve developed a different habit: snacking. Snacking all the time. While I’m watching TV and scrapbooking and reading. Whenever I’m at the computer. At work, even. I had little sugar stashes everywhere. When I was eating dinner I’d be thinking about how I couldn’t wait to eat dessert. And I wouldn’t just eat something small, I’d eat a lot of candy, or five cookies, or a big piece of cake.

My goals with giving up sugar are to get my snacking habit under control, to kick-start my weight loss, and to find a new normal. I love to bake. I love chocolate. I think a life without any sugar is no life at all.  So my goal isn’t “I’m never going to eat sugar again.” It’s “I’m going to create a healthier relationship with sugar,” and I think to do that I have to eliminate it entirely for a while. No sugar for me until Easter weekend, and then again until my birthday, and I’ll see how it’s going after that.

I started last Monday, March 16. I ate a last little bit before I went to bed, and then I was done. Which means I’ve successfully managed an entire week without sugar! Here is what I’ve learned so far.  

1. For me, it’s hard to give up sugar in a different way than I thought. I have (mostly) avoided any super-intense sugar cravings. Instead of being a physical struggle, it is psychological. What I crave is that little happy lift you get right after eating sugar, even though I know it’s only created out of chemicals, not real happiness.
2. It is partially about changing my habits. It’s a habit to reach for that bag of lemon almonds (oh how I love the lemon almonds!) while I’m reading, it’s a habit to have easily-accessible sugar in every room of the house. It’s not completely about hunger or even cravings. It’s about a bad habit.
3. I’ve forgotten what hunger really feels like. By eating treats all the time, I never really felt hungry. I’d just eat meals because it was time to eat them. I am learning again what my body’s cues are to eat, and what is just an emotional or stressful I-must-stuff-my-face-right-now reaction.
4. But, I am less hungry. Or at least, I have been during the last week of no sugar. I’m not taking anything else out right now, but it felt easier to stop at one and a half slices of pizza (instead of three!) or five or six nuts instead of a whole handful.
5. I can substitute fruit—but only up to a point. When I’ve tried to get sugar out of my diet previously, I still ate a lot of fruit. I’m not one who believes you should take all fruit out of your diet, but I do know that eating fruit instead of chocolate (or those lemon almonds!) isn’t exactly teaching myself to tame my sweet tooth. So, if I need it, I can have one piece of fruit in a day.
6. Having easy veggies to snack on makes it easier to snack on veggies. I know myself: if I have to cut it up, I probably won’t eat it. So, I stocked up on pea pods and cherry tomatoes. I’ve also got cheese sticks and lots of almonds, cashews, and pecans.
7. I am starting to feel better. Honestly, the first three days, I felt like crap. Not in a way I can explain directly. I wasn’t nauseous. I just felt…icky. Drained and tired and off. With zero scientific evidence, I think that is the sugar leaving my system. During the last half of the week, I felt better. More energetic and less fuzzy-minded.
8. I am thirsty all the time. I don’t know what that means, or why, but I haven’t had to force myself to drink extra water. I haven’t been able to get enough. I am hoping my body wanted the liquid to flush out the sugar.
9. You have to round up all the treats and chocolates and sugar sources everywhere. Put them all in a bag and then put that bag somewhere that’s hard to get to. It’s much easier to resist what isn’t there.
10. Grocery shopping is hard, so prepare yourself. You can’t buy any new sugar sources for yourself. Even if they’re on sale! But you are barraged by items containing sugar, the whole time you’re shopping. You have to be strong!

Today I start week 2 of my no-sugar goal. I’m feeling much more confident in my ability to keep this up. This week, I am going to try to rely on fruit less, by not eating any on my busy days. I haven’t weight yet so I have no idea if I’ve lost any weight yet, but I am drawing strength from the fact that I am feeling better.

What about you? Have you ever tried to give up sugar?

A list of good things that happened this week:

• On Sunday night at 11:00 I ate a Ghirardelli dark chocolate + peppermint square…and then I devoted myself to not eating any sugar until Easter weekend. I have gained so much weight since last October when my hamstrings started giving me grief and I couldn’t run anymore. None of my clothes are comfortable and I just…I just don’t like my body like this. I feel muffled. But I also have a really hard time losing weight (hypothyroidism). So, drastic measures: no sugar. I have let myself have one piece of fruit each day, but (as Kendell likes to tease) no cookies, candy, cakes or snacks. Or delicious beverages. As of this writing I have gone 143 hours without any sugar.
• Jake had the state HOSA competition with his Parli team. They won! Which means he gets to go to Anaheim in June for the National competition. I’m so proud of him! (I think this was also a good thing for him. He was pretty glad to get away from home for a few days, even if it was just to Layton.)
• Nathan had his first freshman track meet and he won the high jump. 5’8”! He was nursing a slightly-sprained ankle so that made the success even sweeter.
• Three times this week I ran for 6 or more minutes. My hamstrings are very, very slowly starting to get better, and I am very, very slowly becoming a runner again. (For clarity, I did exercise for longer than six minutes. I walked and got on the elliptical after the running.)
• On Friday night, Kendell and I went for a long, lovely walk on the PRT. We talked and laughed. I ran for six minutes and my legs only hurt at the start, but even better was just spending some good, peaceful time together. It’s good to remind yourself that you love your husband!
• Also on Friday, I had a nice conversation with Haley over Skype. It was good to talk to her, even though she is having some heartache right now.
• I saw my cousin Jamie at Costco. No one ever said that we Allmans were a tight-knit group. We grew up in the same little town (my dad and his two brothers and all of their kids) and we saw each other exactly once a year, on Christmas day. I will probably always feel far less cool than my cousins. But, still. Seeing her brought my dad to mind in a happy way, because I think she is the most Allman-looking of all of us. (I don’t look very Allman at all.) It made me think about the way families, even the every-so-loosely-knit ones like the one I grew up in, still influence us. Still carry little parts of us.
• To celebrate my starting-to-heal hamstrings, I exercised in my new orange running skirt. Then, right after the gym, I had to run Kaleb to a birthday party and then stop by Costco. I got some funny looks for my outfit (orange skirt and a big black and purple sweatshirt) but I mostly didn’t care because it was proof: I’m starting to run again!
• Kaleb had his first soccer meet today. He scored five goals! It’s crazy how he moves on the soccer field. He just instinctually gets it. He’s fun to watch and was so happy he played well.
• My mom is out of her rehab, where she was recuperating after having her spine fused. (Her entire spine! From T4 to L5.) She is now moved in with my sister, a place I am desperately hoping she’ll stay. That’s not resolved yet…but at least she is out of the care center and starting to figure out her new life.
• I made a few scrapbook layouts. I’ve been in a scrapbooking slump for a while. It feels like I’ve already done everything that can be done (that I want to do). I need to move my life into different pursuits but I don’t know how to give it up entirely. Or, how to not be entirely devoted to it. I gave myself permission to just enjoy my supplies and not worry about anyone else’s opinion. I enjoyed it! Here’s one of the layouts I made, which kind of proves my point that I was just trying to enjoy my supplies, as everything on this layout is at least three years old, and that “adventure” tag is older than Kaleb!

• I’m starting to feel a little bit better. I didn’t realize how dark a place I was in during January and February until I started moving out of it. (I’m sure the running has helped!) It is good to be transitioning towards a light-filled place.

How was your week?

There's a regular patron at the library where I work who, whenever he sees me, says "hey there, beautiful princess." He's one of those people who think they are being solicitous but really comes across as slightly creepy. I mean, I'm not seven years old.

So the other day, he said "hey there, beautiful princess" and I said, "you know, I don't believe in princesses." He looked perplexed and said, "how can you not believe in princesses? Princesses are real things. That's like not believing in...trees."

I nodded and didn't explain. Except I've been explaining in my head ever since. Sure, real princesses both have existed and continue to exist today. I just don't understand the fascination with them. Especially because the focus is not often on their accomplishments, but what they wear and how they look and how hard their pregnancies must be! (It's rough to be pregnant and sick, I get it. Having a billion nannies and personal assistants probably makes it a little be easier though.)

And that's modern princesses. Even historical ones like Queen Victoria or Queen Elizabeth I, the ones who really did change the world, get a little bit short-shifted because they are exceptions, not the rule.

Don't get me started on princesses in fantasy novels. And don't even ever ask me about my opinions on most of the Disney princesses! (Actually, my opinion is fairly complicated, because even though I see the problems in their stories, a part of me still loves Aurora and Cinderella and Snow White.)

Haley & Belle, who is my favorite "princess," because books, but still...it's mostly about the dress, isn't it?

It's not like I can dismiss every princess, of course. There are examples of strong princesses who changed the world, both in history and in novels. But, in general, there's a princess ethos, and it's about being pretty. Princesses are pretty in delicate, traditional ways. They care about dresses and jewelry and romance. They are well-mannered and elegant. They are absconded by scoundrels, tricked by evil _____ (stepmothers, enchantresses, crones...), rescued by princes. They rarely act for themselves, but are acted upon.

I want to think this is the result of men ruling the world, but I think women are as likely to want to turn each other into princesses. Or themselves. The princess ideal creates an idea of what it means to be feminine that is both unattainable in its quest for perfection and just downright inane. Beauty matters to princesses. External appearances matter. How the world sees you is most important. 

And here is my deal. I don't care how old you are. You can be that slightly-creepy 80-year-old charmer at the library, or a 45-year-old peer, or the friend of my teenage son. I don't care if you see me as beautiful or ugly. I care if you see me as intelligent. As a capable person who gets stuff done. As a runner and a writer and a creative person. As someone you could talk to about important, meaningful topics or someone you could laugh with; someone with a sarcastic edge and a tender side. As someone who, sure, likes clothes and make up and jewelry, but not because of you. Because of me.

In the end, the reason I don't believe in princesses is because princesses are made up. They are very carefully created versions of women, idealized and plastic. To be a princess is to pull on a mask made up not of individual forms of beauty, but of stylized and regulated ones. To be a princess is to fulfill a role created by society, not to live inside of a personality created by experiences.

I don't believe in princesses because I believe in myself, and who I am is focused on strength and intelligence and rescuing myself. 

When we were in Disneyland last month, we rode the Little Mermaid ride. (It wasn’t there the last time we went, so this was new for us.) It’s one of those classic Disney ride through scenes of the movie, with songs from the soundtrack playing. And it took me about ten seconds inside the ride before I found myself in tears.

See, The Little Mermaid was Haley’s favorite movie for several years. When she was still a blonde, curly-haired, precocious cherub:

It was the first movie she saw in a movie theater, the summer she was two when they re-released it for a few months. She had a Little Mermaid bike and a Little Mermaid backpack and a Little Mermaid coloring book. Her fourth birthday party was Little Mermaid-themed. And for about 18 months, she watched it almost every day.

I don’t think I’ve watched The Little Mermaid in 14 or 15 years, but being surrounded by the movie—the songs and the characters—in that ride at Disneyland brought me right back to how it felt being that mom, when Haley was three and Jake was a baby, and I was going to school but still thought of myself as a stay-at-home mom. Before I learned so much of what my adult life has taught me. Those were happy, sweet days.

One afternoon when she was almost three, Haley finished her movie and paused the VCR on the credits. Then she sighed and said, “Oh, Mom. It’s just so…romantic.” I looked at her expression and her body language and all of the yearning in her sweet, young face, and I decided we’d need less Little Mermaid in our lives.

Because really, when you stop to think about it, it’s a horrible story. Put it into human, non-magical-fish terms: a girl is unhappy in the family and place where she grew up, so she searches out somewhere new to live, based on “falling in love” with a boy she’s seen once. The cost for this relocation is her voice. Her voice. And she’s got to convince this boy to fall in love with her, after changing nearly everything about herself.

It creates such false ideas of what love is about. How can anyone fall in love with Ariel when she doesn't know who she is? They are only falling in love with their idea of her. I looked at Haley and I wanted her to never be like Ariel. I didn’t want her to ever give up her voice. I want her to one day be loved for exactly who she is. I wanted her to always use her voice and to not feel silenced or stifled. I want her to learn to love someone, after sharing experiences and friendship and meals together, to take the time to not only trust her heart but to understand something of herself before she becomes someone’s wife.

But I’ve also always been bothered by Ariel’s determined need to be somewhere other. Unhappy in the place she was created in and adapted for, she has to change so much of herself to be adapted for the new place she thinks is where she belongs. Part of me thinks, OK, this is good. It is good that if we don’t feel happy with the circumstances we are raised in, there are always other options. But it also makes me terribly sad—to make such drastic changes to find happiness.

I realized, in the process of writing this very blog post, that Haley feels a little bit like Ariel to me, right now in her life. Not the voice part—she has her voice and she is not giving it up for anything. But the other part, the feeling like maybe the place and the way she was raised might not be the place she fits. I keep reminding myself that this is good, and that she is figuring out her path, and that my idea of happiness (like King Triton’s) might not be her idea of happiness. And I do want her to grow into a happy adult life.

But I am also so deeply sad about this. I had always tried, as a mom, to create a family inside of which my children felt loved. I wanted my home to feel like home to them. I didn't want them to be miserable and yearning for the day they could leave to find their real home. And maybe I set myself up for disappointment by my very expectations—they can’t simultaneously leave to find themselves and always be tugged back home. Her job right now is finding her way, and mine is to cheer her going.

I cannot say how hard it is to let her go.

And I can’t keep myself from thinking about Ariel. After all the initial rush and flutter of falling in love and marriage. After blistered feet and torn toenails and bunions. After really living—does she ever miss it? The swimming? The power in her tail and the freedom of her old life?

That is why it is so hard to see your kids moving away. Because there is so much joy to be had—but also so much heartache. I want Haley—want all my kids—to choose wisely. To never know the lingering bitterness of opportunities missed because of bad choices. To not be swayed by what only seems magical or pretty or enticing or fun, but is really dangerous or destructive or just not the right place to be. I want them to find real happiness, built on them each discovering and then sharing who they really are.

And they have to find it for themselves.

When the Little Mermaid ride was finished, Kaleb looked at me, confused. “Why you crying, Mom?” he asked. (He knows by now, almost ten years into his life, that his mom is a crier, and that the best thing to do is just to ask.) I couldn’t truly explain it to him because I didn’t quite understand it myself, yet. Memory and nostalgia—looking back—mixed with anticipation and fear—looking forward. It’s just that I so want their futures, the ones they are starting to discover, to be good ones, and there are so many ways for them to end up in something that’s almost good. Or nearly happy. Or even downright bad, hard, or disappointing. I want them to not be tricked by the world’s idea of sigh…so romantic. I want them to end up somewhere real, somewhere that is truly good, with their voices intact.

I'm just not sure I've done the right things to help them do that.

(I wrote this book note back in February when I finished this book...and then I forgot to post it! I'm trying to accomplish my goal of blogging about every book I read this year, though, so I'm posting it now even though it's not sequentially what I read next.)

I spotted Etta and Otto and Russell and James on the new-books display one afternoon when I was working. The title grabbed my eye because I'd been thinking about buying a bundle of script fonts, and the cover uses a script font I might even own. (I confess: I notice fonts and how people use them. It's just one of my things, a habit I've picked up from scrapbooking that I apply almost automatically now.) The cover blurb is from Chris Cleave, whose Little Bee I loved, so that was a check in the I might like this column. I don't love the image of the walking woman on the cover—her arms are going in the wrong direction to how people really walk—but I liked the blurry postage stamp, so I read the inside cover.

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Book Note: Love Letters to the Dead

A few weeks ago, I found out something disturbing about one of the high school baseball teams in our little town. A whole bunch of very inappropriate (and, frankly, shocking, even for me!) behavior resulted in most of the team being expelled from school and kicked off the team.

Then I found out some stuff about my kids that I had no idea was happening.

Teenagers!

Suddenly I am remembering how, when you’re a teenager, you have this entirely different and secret life from the ones your parents think you have. At least, I did; I thought it was just me and my friends when I was in the middle of it, but I’ve since learned through many different stories that it wasn’t. Not just me. In fact, maybe my conspicuous rebellion—the black clothes and the attitude and the refusal to follow any rules—was the most honest way to go about it. My parents didn’t know the details of my stories, but it would’ve been hard for them to miss the big picture.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the secret life of adolescents. About why they present a “normal” perspective to their family and something entirely “other” to their friends. Some of it has to do with not wanting to let their parents down, I think. But some of it is just that need to do exactly what you want, with no one to tell you that you can’t, even when it’s the dumbest thing you could do. How much heartache could be spared if we all could just (somehow) manage to talk to each other? But claiming your emerging self is hard because it’s still emerging. Still forming and changing. And sharing your hardest stories, even with—especially with—your parents sometimes feels impossible.

So with those thoughts in my head, the arrival on my hold shelf of the YA novel Love Letters to the Dead, by Ava Dellaira, was perfect timing. It tells the story of Laurel, who is just starting her first year of high school. High school, the place where her sister, May, had the time of her life—until she died. That first day of high school, Laurel gets an assignment from her English teacher: write a letter to someone dead. She starts with Kurt Cobain, because May loved him; she doesn’t turn the letter in to her English teacher, but uses the assignment as a way of figuring out what is happening to her. She writes letters to Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse, Heath Ledger, Mr. Ed, Amelia Earhart. Bit by bit, they tell the story of her freshman year, and also of the year before and, eventually, what really happened to May. And what really happened to Laurel.

I wanted to read this the very second I heard about it. (It’s hard to get on the top of the hold list when you’re a librarian!) It appealed to me for several reasons. One: brilliant English assignment! (Filed away in the “just in case I ever teach again” folder in my brain.) Two: it’s an intriguing concept. What dead people might be picked? Why? Who would I write to? (There would be a lot of poets on my list.) Three: that thing I have for sad novels.

It didn’t disappointment. Laurel’s life takes some pretty wide swings, as she adjusts to her new school and tries to figure out her place in this new world, without her sister or her mom (who fled to California after May’s death). She drinks, she does drugs, she skips school, yet she does a pretty good job of keeping it all hidden from her dad, who is only barely coping, too. She builds her secret new life, but she has an older one, which is the secret life she sort-of shared with May, who had her own secrets as well. It’s a devastating book, really. But it is also a book about redemption, about honesty, about how sharing your secret life makes it bearable and how telling your secrets helps you to live with them. It made me think about what I do, as the parent of teenagers, to make it hard for them to tell me things, to construct their own secret lives. It made me want to be better at creating the right environment for them to open up to me. If they just will.

What dead person could you write a letter to? What would you tell him/her?

Every once in a while, I get a request at work for a sad book. Usually this comes from a teenage girl. I used to dread this request a little bit, because it makes me worry about my young patrons. Are they wanting sad because they’re depressed, and will reading sad make them dangerously depressed? I always hope not. But I never know, and while being a librarian is sometimes like being a bar tender—you listen to a lot of other people’s stories—I’m not sure I can fix them anyway. I try to give encouraging smiles and send uplifting, supportive vibes, but the truth is (at least for me), you need the care and support of the people who love you to help you survive adolescent depression—but there is also a moment when you have to save yourself. 

(And sometimes books can help you do that.)

Of course, the other true is that I’m sort of a connoisseur of sad books, so I totally get this request. It all started when I discovered Sylvia Plath and The Bell Jar. It might be strange that a novel about a girl who tried to commit suicide, written by a poet before she actually committed suicide, helped me so much when I was in my black places. But it did. It made life feel valuable enough to hold on to when I considered, through story, the very real consequences of such an ugly choice. That’s what I hope the girls seeking sad books find in the novels they take home: hope through stories. Sometimes the way to make yourself feel better is to wallow in someone else’s sadness. Sometimes it’s just good to know you’re not the only person who feels like this. Sometimes it’s good to be reminded that there are harder things than what you’re going through.

If you, too, are looking for sad books, here’s a list (all of it, I just realized, is YA):

A Swift Pure Cry by Siobhan Dowd (about a girl whose father is an alcoholic, and she gets in trouble with a boy, and how she sort of loses it and then finds it.)

Willow by Julia Hoban (Willow is a cutter...the novel tells about her experiences and how her boyfriend tries to get her to stop.)

The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (Frankie goes to a private school, where she takes control of the all-boy secret society...this one isn't quite so crazy/depressing but it works because at the end Frankie gets a little bit crazy for a while. I love this book!)

Story of a Girl by Sara Zarr (The fallout after Deanna's dad catches her in the backseat of her boyfriend's car.)

Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher (before Hannah commits suicide, she records tapes of herself explaining the thirteen reasons she killed herself, with instructions for the tapes to be mailed to each person on the list)

You Know Where to Find Me by Rachel Cohn (Goth-girl Miles tries to cope after her best friend commits suicide.)

And We Stay by Jenny Hubbard (17-year-old Emily moves to Amherst, Massachusetts after her boyfriend shoots himself in the high school library.) 

Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson (Lia is anorexic.)

Where I Want to Be by Adele Griffin (The story of two sisters, one of whom is dead; they are still connected, though, because Jane tells her story after her death, which happened when she went off her anti-psychotic meds.)

Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock (A suicidal boy tells the four important people in his life goodbye.)

Fat Kids Rule the World by Kelly Going. (Troy, who weighs over 300 pounds and is suicidal, gets a new perspective via music when a homeless teenager asks him to be the drummer in his band.)

Hold Still by Nina LaCour. (Her best friend didn’t leave a suicide note, but her journal provides some understanding to Caitlin as she struggles to move on.)

This Song will Save your Life by Leila Sales. (Almost a year after her failed suicide attempt, Elise discovers she wants to be a DJ.)

Before I Die by Jenny Downham. (A dying girl makes a list of all the things she wants to experience before death.)

Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira (Laurel, whose sister recently died and mom left home, is given an assignment in Freshman English: write a letter to a dead person. She chooses Kurt Cobain, but never turns the letter in; instead, she uses the writing exercise as a way to explore what really happened to her sister.)

Belzhar by Meg Wolitzer. (When coping with the loss of her boyfriend becomes too much, Jam Gallahue is sent to a boarding school in Vermont that specializes in treating teenage depression. A journal-writing assignment transports her to a magical place called Belzhar. A touch of fantasy mixes with her attempts to figure out herself and her life.)

How do you feel about sad books?

Today is the NEA’s National Read Across America day. (It’s also Dr. Seuss’s birthday.) When a friend told me about it (I might have failed in my Official Library Responsibilities by not knowing such a thing existed), it made me think about myself as a reader in a way I never have before:

What if I wasn’t a reader?

That’s sort of as hard for me to imagine about myself as trying to replace my brown eyes with green, or my abnormally high forehead with a short one, or my ultra-flexible feet with stiff ones. Being a reader—loving books and always reading something and thinking about stories—is the part of my identity that has been with me the longest. I wasn’t born reading, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love books.

Who would I be without that trait?

Most definitely I wouldn’t be a librarian. Probably I never would’ve been a high school English teacher, either, because part of why I became a teacher is the way I was saved by books that I learned about in high school English. I wouldn’t have writerly aspirations.

I would be in an entirely different place, career-wise.

But at a more elemental level, I would be different. I wouldn’t be myself without having wandered P. E. Island with Anne as a kid, or Narnia or Wisconsin and Kansas or England or The Lands Beyond. They gave me a glimpse of the world outside my little community.

That battered index of Greek gods and goddesses I borrowed fifty times from the library when I was a kid changed my life. It taught me that there are many ways of making sense of the world, and that there are stories behind everything if you look hard enough. Part of me will always be Artemis, and part Selena, and part Medusa (who is entirely misunderstood), and entirely always Persephone.

I would be less of a person without having fought the Trojan War, and then tried to get home with Odysseus and founded Rome with Aeneas. I am forever haunted by the deaths of Dido and Iphigenia. Isn’t Penelope the real hero of The Odyssey? And Cassandra—Cassandra and I are secret sisters, separated by centuries and oceans but still companions.

What if I hadn’t read Cat’s Eye when I was in my deepest floundering moments? What if the strange courage of Moira and Offred hadn’t been a way for me to find my own strange braveries? What if the sadness and gloom of Sylvia Plath hadn’t been the thing to lift me out of my own?

Who would I be?

Without Cathy and Heathcliff in all of their terribleness, without Tess, without Ophelia, without Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, without Dr. Frankenstein and Dorian Gray and Grannyweatherall?

Without Clarisse, without John the Savage, without Vashti and Kuno, without Julia or Liberty 5-3000 or even without Jonas or Tally Youngblood or Katniss? Or dystopias in general?

What if I couldn’t pick up a book and be reminded of my dad? Or find a little piece of my sister or my friend or my child or my grandmother? Or myself?

I can’t imagine who I’d be without the influence of books. They have been solace and savior. They have broken me open and put me back together in a better form. They have taught me what I needed to know without having to do as many hard things. They have taught me compassion, understanding, and empathy; how to survive devastation and unimaginable loss. They have helped me understand other races and cultures and perspectives. They’ve brought history to life and sparked my imagination. They have whisked me off to foreign lands in order to teach me about my own backyard; they have introduced me to strange creatures to tell me something about being human.

I love books.

I love reading.

I love how stories have shaped and influenced and changed me.

I wouldn’t be me without books and I am grateful for whatever brain chemistry or personality trait or maybe just my mother’s willingness to read to me—whatever magic happened to make me a reader, it is my favorite magic ever.

What are you reading today?