I’ve always prided myself on being a reader. While many of my peers called me a “nerd” or an “overachiever” whenever I would pull out unassigned readings from my book bag and scan through during my free time while they all sat around gossiping, I would just laugh and brush it off because I knew that in the long-run, I was the real winner. High school teachers always preached that it didn’t matter what students were reading, the act of reading itself was enough to reap the benefits. I took that to heart and read anything and everything I could get my hands on, and I had never been ashamed or insecure about the material I chose to read...until I got to college.

I was nervous enough about my first day of Fiction Writing knowing that I was a freshman taking a writing course in one of the best fiction programs in the country; add getting lost and showing up late, and I’m sure you could imagine the red-faced, sweaty mess I was. The students in my class were sitting in a circle, taking turns introducing themselves and sharing the last book they read. Given that I had only been in the room long enough to hear two other students introduce themselves before giving my own introduction, I had no idea what kinds of books these people were reading, nor that I would receive any judgmental reactions for answering truthfully. I announced to the class, “I just finished "Fifty Shades of Grey". I’m in a book club with all females, so it was bound to happen at some point.” While my instructor laughed, everyone else just stared at me.

Up until this point, I didn’t know what it felt like to have twenty strangers simultaneously looking at me like I was an alien like I didn’t belong. But, I couldn’t blame them then, "Fifty Shades of Grey" is a very, very poorly written novel.

After my first writing class, I thought I had learned my lesson. I took another writing course the following semester that started in the same way: introduce yourself to the class and tell them what the last book you read was. This time, I played it safe. I told the class that I had just finished "The 5th Wave". The movie was coming out soon, and I assumed it would be a popular option, but again the students just looked at me. No one nodded or said “oh, I’ve read that one too!” like they had been with other introductions. Once again, I was left feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like I fit in with all of the other sophisticated readers at my university. I remember walking to my car after class that day contemplating what I was doing in these classes, and if this was really the path I was cut out to take.

I am nearly twenty years old, and yes, I still read young adult fiction. My bookshelves are covered with YA. If you see me at a bookstore, there’s about a ninety-nine percent chance I’m reading the covers of the YA new releases. But that doesn’t mean I am less of a person for doing so. It does not mean I am incapable of reading at a higher level. All that it means is that I enjoy reading YA fiction.

Truth be told, I think most adult literature is boring. YA fiction is more exciting, and there are more lessons to be learned. Literature intended for young audiences is imaginative and encouraging. Those stories are told from the viewpoint of characters who still believe that anything can happen, and it is refreshing. When you’re sitting in classes five days a week that don’t feel like they pertain to you at all, and when you’re averaging twenty hours of work every week just to pay the bills, it’s easy to lose sight of what your goals are. It’s easy to forget that you have dreams and aspirations when you’re doing calculus, but when you pick up a YA book and read about young people who are dreaming of better lives, you start to remember. Just because the intended audience for a book you’re interested in is set to be much younger than you, that doesn’t mean you don’t get anything out of it. You often learn the most about yourself in the most unexpected places.