A few months ago, I sat on the couch in my family room reading and re-reading middle-grade books. I had reached an end of sorts with young-adult fiction—had grown concerned about the divisions, the animosity, even, that had grown up among and between YA camps and were splitting writers from writers from (ultimately) readers. I wanted to feel the simple magic again of being a reader in a young person's world.
I read to be alive to the stories themselves. I read in search of binding patterns. I read, and I thought.
This essay, now published on Printers Row/Chicago Tribune, reports back on the thoughts I had.
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