I like to read popular YA series (that’s Young Adult, for all of you who are not nerdy tweens). The good ones have everything I need from an entertainment source—strong young women, innocent love, an apocalyptic universe, and a hard-fought triumph. Bonus points if there’s a group of manipulative, evil adults creating a disastrous world through which the teenagers must navigate.
I’m reading one of these series right now and am halfway through it. I’m in the middle of all kinds of drama. Which love interest will the main character choose? Who else will be attacked by gelatinous, dagger-wielding monsters? Will the group’s brains start devolving so far that they try to eat each other? These are the important questions. I’m pretty much uninterested in reading a book unless there are a few of these dilemmas present.
However, the library didn’t have the next book when I went there yesterday. Amateur move on my part. Any library-lover knows to request a hold before you get there, but I thought I’d just take my chances. Big mistake. As you all know, I’m obsessed with libraries—whatever the size. I’ve been a library-lover since I was a child, and I was particularly dedicated to the house of books when I was a tween. Because I wasn’t fighting monsters with magic or living as a world-traveling orphan or making friends with mannequins come to life, I turned to the next best thing: the place where all those stories lived.
So I’ve logged a lot of hours in the library, and I know my 12-year-old self was shaking her head when I walked out empty handed yesterday. I guess I’ll just have to wait a little longer to find out whether all these teenagers will be cured of the rampant, fatal disease spreading across their world. Lucky for me, that’s the beauty of a book—the story isn’t going anywhere.