Garret Weyr, also Freymann-Weyr's Blog

My essay about why kids will get more out of reading adult books than YA ones is now up on NPR’s website. I find it amusing that so many of the comments assume that my problem with YA stems from Twilight and what they refer to as “fluff books”.

For the record, I really enjoyed Twilight. I have no problem with escapist and fun reading; I think it’s important and vital. My problem with YA is that it passes itself off as a destination for the growing, absorbent mind. In fact, it is a literature of transition, and should be used as a stepping-stone on the way to finding yourself through and in books.

There is no reason on God’s good earth not to hunt for books by and for adults for a teen whom you hope will become a reader.

My essay about why kids will get more out of reading adult books than YA ones is now up on NPR's website. I find it amusing that so many of the comments assume that my problem with YA stems from Twilight and what they refer to as "fluff books".

For the record, I really enjoyed Twilight. I have no problem with escapist and fun reading; I think it's important and vital. My problem with YA is that it passes itself off as a destination for the growing, absorbent mind. In fact, it is a literature of transition, and should be used as a stepping-stone on the way to finding yourself through and in books.

There is no reason on God's good earth not to hunt for books by and for adults for a teen whom you hope will become a reader.

Here is a totally Stray Thought that I don't feel invades my privacy, although for many years I did keep it a secret. I love romance novels. The fat, trashy kind with hilarious titles like Mine Till Midnight or Love Again Later.

I even like the silly, skinny ones put out by Harlequin that you can buy in the grocery store. Soon I will have a "Three Books" piece on NPR's All Things Considered about adult books to give your smart, young adult children. The original "Three Books" was to have been on romance novels, but it didn't work out. I couldn't make my love for and joy with the romance genre fit into a NPR series about books not to be missed.

But here's an essay that I wish I could have made radio friendly:

I confess: I love romance novels. The fat paperbacks with covers depicting low-cut dresses and half-naked men. Inside of those covers, you will find stories full of beautiful, spirited women who conquer the hearts of strong, protective men.It's true that, as a rule, romance novels over-describe and have plots which go to absurd lengths to separate the lovers until the requisite happy ending. But to either attack or defend their literary merits is to miss the point. What distinguishes romance novels from other escapist genres like mysteries, sci-fi or fantasy, is that they have no pretense of being anything other than a guarantee of pleasure. The novels take you to a world of bone china, lush gardens, brocade dresses, villains, heroes, heroines and love everlasting.

You probably won't take my word for it, and you shouldn't. Reading romance novels must be experienced rather than analyzed. So let me give you a brief tour of three books that will help kick-start your habit.

Duncan's Bride by Linda Howard is a good example of the ever-popular plot of virtual strangers marrying before they fall in love or (as happens here) have sex. Reese Duncan owns a huge ranch that leaves him too busy for courtship. Still, he wants all that marriage delivers: children, available sex, and help around the house. Naturally, he advertises for a wife. Lovely, kind Madelyn Patterson, who lives in New York, answers the ad. They meet, sparks fly, they marry and… guess what? She turns out to be a great rancher's wife, and Reeese comes to realize that he loves her. It sounds ridiculous, but Linda Howard's rapid pacing and frequent sex scenes help you to surrender to the story. The sex feels X-rated, but is written as discreetly as an ad for "soft tissues".

Judith McNaught's A Kingdom of Dreams is set in 12th Century Britain. It's your basic epic love story starring an English warrior and the daughter of his Scottish foe. The novel is densely plotted and full of delicious secondary characters. Its settings include a convent, a military campground, the Tower of London, Henry II's court and several imposing castles. Royce and Jenny's romance begins when she is his prisoner, and ends a few months after they have been forced into marriage by absurd circumstance. Judith McNaught specializes in couples who, despite a strong emotional and physical bond, have great reason to mistrust eachother. There are hundreds of pages of true love conquering wounded pride, misunderstanding and suspicion.

But for me, Lisa Kleypas remains the Queen of romantic historicals (although she has recently branched out to write contemporary romances). Whenever a long trip looms or a nasty cold strikes, I search for a new release, or a title on her backlist that has somehow escaped my devouring appetite. Seduce Me At Sunrise is second in a new series, but it is Kleypas at the top of her game. Winifred Hathaway, the heroine, is blond, fragile and pure. She loves, and is loved chastely by Kev — the dark, brooding, orphaned gypsy boy her father saved and raised. Winifred wants passion, sex, and romance from Kev, not just devotion, but he thinks she is too good for him. In the end, Love and Winifred triumph, and Kev finds that in her arms he broods no more.

As must be clear by now, and sales figures bear it out, these books are not read by men… which is their loss. But if you are a woman, or an adventuresome man, any of these three volumes will coax you into a new reading habit. One that will bring disbelief that you are enjoying this stuff… as well as pure bliss at the fact that you are.

So it would appear that none of my thoughts have been stray for a while. Or perhaps they have been so stray that none of them have agreed to be captured. A few notes, then:

The air in North Carolina smells good. Not clean or like an éclair, but just good. It's not quite the air of southern California, which can hang about you, heavy with floral bloom, but it's still good.

I have a dog.

I should have lead with that. He is four or five years old, a shar-pei/pug mix, riddled with skin allergies, and is a sweet pea. Dorcas hates him. This is kind of funny, as D is too lazy to do much about it. Mostly they nap within a few feet of each other, but every now and then, Dorcas will turn into a Halloween cat, arching his back and hissing.

When you have a dog, none of your thoughts are stray. They are about walks, food, naps, and dog love.

I'd like to say that I am going to be better about posting here, but I probably won't. Writers are supposed to make their pages places of destination. A place that invites readers in and makes them feel that they have found a writer with whom they can connect. I am rather of the opinion that people who become writers do so because they are not so great at "connecting" with others.

Plus, I'm insanely private, and am going to take down the stray thought about my crushes on Garry Kasparov and Dwight Garner. I mean, really… who needs to know about that?

After The Moment is a novel about boys, love and violence. It is also the story of seventeen year old Leigh Hunter and how his first foray into true love shapes the man he is in the process of becoming.

There is a girl on the cover of this novel. It is probably meant to be Maia Morland, who is not only the object of his first love, but a self-described train wreck of a girl. The girl on the book is so pretty, however, that she could easily be Leigh's girlfriend, Astra Grein. Astra is not a train wreck. She is the girl every boy at Leigh's high school wants. Astra is the girl with whom Leigh is sleeping, but not the girl with whom he is in love.

In any event, it is a girl, and not a young man on the cover. Several blog reviewers (and the people leaving comments on blogs) have had a problem with this fact. One young woman said:

"Since there are White girls on more than half the covers it doesn't stand out.

Now if there was a guy on the cover, I would've stopped to have a look.

Its sounds really good, but [I] won't read it anytime soon. Its hard to handsell a book with the wrong cover.

A blogger who gave the book a smart, thoughtful review also asked, "How confusing to have a girl on the cover?"

Here's the thing: according to Houghton, boys do not buy and/or read YA novels. Even YA books written by men have girls on the cover. So that's why there's a girl on the cover.

I LOVE that reviewers think After the Moment is a convincing portrait of a young man. But the people whose job it is to sell books decided to put a girl on the cover.

Sorry, and all that jazz, but really. Can we table the cover discussion?

My stray thoughts for today are not moving-related, thank God and finally.

But they do reveal that I am still a little bit boring in that way that shell-shocked people often are. My cat, as you can see from the evidence below, is supercute in spite of his new location. I am watching so much tennis that if I had to file my taxes today I would put "professional tennis watcher" on the occupation line.

It turns out that when you are moving, there is no such thing as a stray thought. You can only think (or, more precisely, I can only think) about lists, boxes, undone tasks, not enough time, and why on earth you have so many books and tea cups.

I did, in the not too distant past, have an elegant and well thought out response to a revolting quote in Katie Roiphe's WSJ piece about YA literature. My response had to do with the merits of moral codes when the only morality in both writing and the reading experience have to do with standards.

But, honestly, with my stuff everywhere and my mind half in DC and half in NC, I simply can not recall why I cared. Or why I thought anyone else would.

In what little private time I have I am reading Howl's Moving Castle (which my beloved Sharyn recommended) and Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell. If I were a little less frantic, I could come up with something pithy to say about how the two are similar.

Well, maybe not. Enjoy your Tuesday. It will be far less tedious than mine.

Dorcas and my study are moving to North Carolina. This means, naturally enough, that I will be living in North Carolina. I went to school in North Carolina (Chapel Hill). It was . . . um. . . not a happy time.

I am rather hoping that this will be a happy move. My husband (who always makes sure that no matter where we live I have a room with a door in which to work) will be working at WDAV, which is a great station and reminds me of what WQXR once was. Moving is hell, of course. Yet it offers the chance to go through your things and decide that yes, I do need all these different copies of Mary Poppins, The Secret Garden and 23 different accounts of what went wrong in Iraq. But that, no, I no longer need every single T-shirt I've ever owned. Or that white skirt that I never wear.

All this is by way of saying that if you sent me an email recently or a request for a book, send it again at the end of August. By then I'll be frazzled in a different way. Not a moving way.

I will be at ALA on July 11th and 12th. On the one hand, this is a fun thing that I am looking forward to. Chicago! Seeing my editor (Julia Whom We Love)! Seeing Sara Ryan! Plus, you get to be around people whose work is all in the same area as yours. All good stuff.

On the other hand, a lot of those people whose work is all in the same area are busy explaining how their book (or books, or Fall lists, or careers, or whatever) are just the most amazing things ever. No one EVER says, "Hey, this is all just a bunch of YA books. We're not talking Tessa Hadley here.

I, however, think that a lot. And smiling while not saying it can make me need many cups of tea and many advils. So, if you have a chance, and are also at ALA, come and say hello at the Houghton booth on Sunday. I will be signing books from 11-12, which basically means I will be sitting there with the Houghton person whose job it hang out at the booth. I will be easy to spot, and not only because I am a six-foot-tall redhead. No one will be there besides me. Come say hi, and we can talk about amazing things, Tessa Hadley or tea.

I probably never got to decide on my own if I liked French films or not. When I was fourteen I went with my mother to see Peppermint Soda, which was directed by the amazing Diane Kurys. The movie is about a 13-year-old girl in Paris who is trying to come of age under the shadow of her parents’ divorce, her older sister’s political rants (she’s against the bomb and what the French are doing in Algeria), and her own confused thoughts. I loved the movie. By the time I was 14, I’d seen countless movies, TV shows, books for girls, and issues of Seventeen Magazine, all of which explained everything that a teenage girl should, would, could feel. Peppermint Soda assumed I was capable of entertainment that didn’t explain everything, and as I followed the heroine’s efforts to understand and accept, a French-film lover was born. I never did love Jules and Jim as much my father felt I should, and I can’t say that every bit of Breathless left me enthralled, and I really hated Vagabond. But as a rule, the films made in France that come to the States tend to share a belief in the audience’s abilities to connect the dots. No matter your age, it’s hard not to be seduced by that.

Which is why I dragged my husband to go see L’heure d’été (Summer Hours). It has Juliette Binoche in it and it’s hard to complain about anything if you have a chance to look at her. The movie, about how three siblings handle the dispersal of their mother’s estate after her death, is not great. It has amazing performances and a lovely depiction of the French countryside. It never once thought it needed to explain to the viewers, it simply revealed what it was like to be each of the siblings. The siblings squabbled and did their best. Paintings by Corot as well as a summer house are sold. It is up for debate if the grandchildren will recall much of the time they spent at their grandmother’s.

I liked that we never saw either the mother’s death or the funeral. I like how so much happened off screen. I liked how a sub-plot about a granddaughter told us miles about the eldest brother and his marriage. I liked how we found out about the failed marriage of Binoche’s character via a joke. I liked how her boyfriend showed up and left without a lot of set-up or explanation.

In spite of the acting, the film’s many good parts didn’t add up. I think it was supposed to be about how objects hold memory and how stories fade in importance when there is no one left who cares to listen. It was no I’ve Loved You So Long (see below), but it was still nice to spend time with a movie that wanted to be more than its parts. This has gotten too long, and I’ve spent an insane amount of time trying not to sound like I love the French (I don’t—the one time I was in Paris, I cried every day because they were so mean to me). It’s simply that I formed a habit back when I was fourteen and I’ve never yet shucked it. I’ll write next week about the moral code, which has to do with YA novels, Katie Roiphe, and what a writer owes her reader.