Why YA? Are Teens Just Better at Saving the World?

In response to my post about character transformations, Julie commented that, more often than not, the characters she sees featured in epic fantasy novels are teens. She also asked several good questions:

Obviously writing about teenagers has a lot of merit as far as all the physical/emotional/maturity changes people face at that stage in life, but can character transformations be just as effective when the character is older? And is it the same for someone in their 20s-30s as it might be for someone who is 40-50 or 60-70? Is there something else that makes adolescence such a special (and popular) time to showcase in a novel of epic proportions? Is this a recent trend?

It's possible that this seems like a recent trend because (1) Young Adult (or YA) fiction is a relatively new thing in and of itself, with publishers having only started to market specifically to teenagers in the last 40 or so years, and the genre has been growing ever since, leading us to (2), the fact that the Young Adult market is booming right now, while a lot of other markets for fiction remain somewhat stagnant due to the recession, changes in the industry and other miscellaneous Doom and Gloom. But I don't think the trend Julie noticed is a fluke—there are some very real advantages to featuring teenage characters in your novel, and/or to marketing it to teens.

I do think that character transformations can and often are handled extremely well in novels intended for and about adults. The Kite Runner is a great example. Though a good portion of the novel is narrated in retrospect and some of its most important moments feature Amir and Hassan as children, Amir’s transformation does not occur in childhood. In fact, he very deliberately avoids it until well into his adulthood. Having lived with and loathed his cowardice and selfishness for years, it is the adult Amir who finally transforms into a man willing to accept the personal cost of standing up for others. Despite that, I think that the emotional journey of that novel is every bit as effective as that of a well-written YA novel.

But I do think that YA as a genre has its inherent benefits when it comes to staging an important character transformation or an epic journey. I often see novels for adults, like Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen and Someone Knows My Name by Lawrence Hill, taking advantage of those benefits by allowing a childhood story of transformation to be narrated by an older character who looks back on his or her youth. In both books, the narratives allow their readers to feel the immediacy of the characters’ growth the adulthood, but the ever-present knowledge that the tales are being related by characters who have had the opportunity to reflect on these experiences keeps them solidly in the realm of adult fiction.

So what are YA’s inherent advantages when it comes to building change?

Julie nailed one of the major ones, which is that, quite simply, teenagers are already changing drastically. On top of changing physically and emotionally with puberty, teens find themselves outside of the supervision of adults for the first time ever and begin discovering their own power to act independently. This is one of the defining characteristics of YA literature in comparison with books for younger readers. Often Middle Grade novels focus on conflicts which are confined, like the characters themselves, to a family unit—or, in the case of Middle Grade novels in which the characters do go on an epic quest, like Gregor the Overlander or Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, the adventure cannot begin until the adults are out of the picture. Teens, however, are typically given more freedom and are quick to begin pushing boundaries.

Secondly, it’s a fascinating time to write about, because when faced with a problem teens don’t have the benefit of experience to draw upon. As a character in David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas says, “Bein' young ain't easy 'cos ev'rythin' you're puzzlin'n'anxin' you're puzzlin'n'anxin' it for the first time.” Teens experience failure after failure and, for the first time in their lives, they aren’t protected from it. And whereas adults often have the experience to recognize plans that are doomed to fail, and enough cynicism not to pin all their hopes to their next plan of attack, teens are passionate, often impulsive, and extraordinarily resilient—so with each new approach to an obstacle, they throw themselves into the fight, certain that this new approach will change everything. All those idealistic forward motions and devastating failures are incredible devices for building tension, and teenagers’ transformations are usually all the more intense for the fervor with which they approach every challenge.

With all that boundary-pushing and newfound independence, teens are also discovering the consequences—both good and bad—of their actions. They keenly feel the importance of everything they do, from how they dress to where they sit in the cafeteria. Plunged into a social hierarchy which is quick to remind them of any trespasses, most teens become hyper-aware of their every action as a choice made within and critiqued by that hierarchy. And every action and emotion within that environment is heightened, dramatic. Maybe the teenage years seem like such an ideal setting for an epic adventure because they are a time at which every challenge we face really does seem epic, every love feels like true love, and every obstacle seems like it could be the last.

And I think the realization of a social hierarchy, coupled with that newfound independence, does something else powerful—it awakens in teens a constant awareness of a world that is larger than them. Up until their teenage years, almost all of their choices and actions are filtered through the adults around them before reaching the outside world. With their newfound freedoms, teens are just discovering that their choices can create change in the world around them, and they take to that like wildfire. Every teen seems to be an activist.

So teens aren’t just changing themselves—they’re changing the worlds around themselves, they’re actively looking for change (and they fervently believe in it), and they’re molded by each of their endeavors. These are juicy, defining years, ripe for transformation. How we deal with the conflicts, challenges and heartbreaks we face as teens determines the adults we become—and who doesn’t want to take part in recreating that experience?

Questions? Have your own theories as to why this trend exists? Let me know in the comments!

On a Lighter Note... Let's Talk About Character Transformations

I think that one of the reasons humans have always been driven to tell stories, and to tell them in the particular way that we do, is because they illustrate how something came to be—how something changed irreversibly, and the new state of being came to be the only one that worked. A story is a series of actions and decisions, but what a story’s about is change. There are some exceptions to this rule, but as a human race I think we’re mostly interested in internal, character-based changes. That means that characters change and are changed by their circumstances.

But how do you create that transformation, and how do you make it believable? And how do you fit that transformation into a framework of external circumstances which are, most likely, also changing?

Most stories begin with the status quo, but few hold the reader there for very long. The impetus for the actual story is usually some small change—a new cropping up, or a new rule being established. This new circumstance presents an obstacle which will grow throughout the story, and which will force the character to change.

Again, there are some exceptions to this rule, but typically plots are most interesting if a flaw of the character’s—the exact trait you will transform through the story, ideally—contributes to or even creates the obstacle. Though the reader may be aware of this flaw and how it contributes to the problem, the character will be blind to that fault at first. Nonetheless, the flaw will keep the character tied down, while the obstacle creates something against which the character is pushing.

I think of character transformations—and thus plotlines—as working like a slingshot. Even after the need for change is established, the character will try to move forward by acting in the same way she always has. However, whatever it is that she needs to change is keeping her from making headway, and any attempt to go forward will only result in her struggling against that force. This struggle will build tension as the character goes as far as she possibly can—and as with a slingshot, the struggle to keep moving in that same direction becomes more difficult the further she gets. Finally, the character will have reached as far as she can possibly reach by struggling in that one direction, and the slingshot’s elastic will either snap or release itself in a powerful reversal of the story’s direction. In either case, the character will have no choice but to change, and that change propels her right into the climax. The more powerful the tension and then the snap back, the faster and more intense the climax.

As is true in real life, your character’s transformation will come gradually, and your plot arc will be comprised of a series of forward-backward strides. Similarly, in the very best stories at least some of the secondary characters also undergo transformations. You can apply the slingshot metaphor to the story’s subplots just as well as you can to the overarching plot. Vary the amount of tension and the amount of time spent building it based on how important a particular change is to the overall plot. Through each subplot, however, you want to always be pulling the slingshot that is the overarching plot tighter. Never allow the resolution of one subplot or struggle to release more tension than it builds.

The scope of different stories can vary widely, from an epic struggle or quest (think The Hunger Games or The Lord of the Rings), in which the entire world has the potential to be transformed, to more contained stories in which the world likely to change is that of one individual or family, as in Marcelo in the Real World. But in each case, the most essential change in the story is a character transformation. The Hunger Games is less about what happens in a violent arena than about a teenage girl learning to fight for the freedom of those she loved. The Lord of the Rings is, at heart, a story about several characters' transformations into heroes. And Marcelo is, perhaps more evidently than the other two, a tale about a boy finding the strength to stand up for what’s right and face adult decisions. Whatever the situation, these stories feel compelling to us because we can relate to and learn from the characters. And what we’re specifically relating to in these characters is the way in which they change in order to deal with their circumstances.

So properly building the tension around your character’s transformation will help you beef up your story’s emotional core. I strongly suggest taking the time to map out these changes so that you can devote the right amount of your story to each change.

And that’s where your input comes in! I’m curious: do you have any tried and true methods for mapping your characters’ transformations? How do you approach tension-building as you write?

On Scene Endings and other Small Choices that Make a Big Difference

I hope by now you all have had the chance to see Jason Reitman's film, Up in the Air. (If you haven't, but want to, this might not be the post you want to read, as it will include mild spoilers.)

The film's concept, and the artistic director/writer behind it, have intrigued me since I caught the tail end of an NPR interview covering it. And the finished film really did not disappoint. Much like Juno, it's a very literary take on a basic premise that could have made for a very mainstream film. What makes it stand out is its thoughtful characterization, its skillful weaving together of multiple plot lines and character arcs, and the sincere attention to detail that's shown in its every shot. That last one, it struck me, is something you writer-folk can learn from.

There's a scene in Up in the Air that I found to be a particularly nice touch. Robert Bingham (George Clooney) has finally met the woman for whom he'd give up his "What's in your Backpack?," commitment-free way of life. He's traveled across the country to reach her, only to learn that he isn't a big part of her life -- that she, like everyone else he knows, has her own ties already, and she won't let them go. He's free to return to his earlier habits, uninhibited by the baggage people bring with them.

Scenes in film are even shorter than those in novels, so in a well-made movie they have to be economical in order to have maximum impact. So I was on the lookout for some good moves in the scene directly following this revelation. Bingham returns to the airport -- his home, his comfort zone -- and checks onto a flight. The music is quiet, and when he swipes his card (a card which cues the clerk to say "Welcome back, Mr. Bingham," and something in which he takes total delight), the scene cuts. There's no friendly clerk's voice. Just silence. It's a small decision on the director's part, but it's significant. It not only moves Bingham from point A to point B (literally, back to his apartment in Omaha); it moves the viewer to a better understanding of his mental state. In a very effective, yet very small way, the film conveys the fact that Bingham has lost faith in his free-wheeling philosophy. The airline's welcome isn't included because it's no longer meaningful to Bingham. That's smart, smart directing.

In many ways, writing is a lot like directing a film. When you've got strong, fully-developed characters and the beginnings of a plot in your mind, they have a tendency to take off with it. You can't control everything your characters do, because who they are and how they change has to determine the way their stories advance. But what you can control, completely and entirely, is how their story is told. And a truly great writer pays close attention to every detail, and uses it to artfully convey a story's theme and its characters' mindsets.

A lot of what I know about writing strong scenes, I learned from Cheryl Klein at Scholastic's Arthur A. Levine Books. She taught me that every scene, no matter how short, needs to advance the story told in a manuscript. It can do that in a number of ways: by building character, by containing clues or vital information for the reader, or by moving the story forward with action -- preferably more than one of those at a time. With that in mind, one of the most important choices a writer makes is when to end a scene. Ended too early, a scene doesn't convey everything it needs to and your manuscript feels choppy or scattered. Ended too late, a scene gives the reader everything he or she needs to know but lacks artfulness (a manuscript full of scenes like this will come across as long-winded, and will make it difficult for your reader to hone in on your character's growth and your manuscript's theme). But a good scene -- well, a good scene makes us Get It. A good scene gives your reader everything he or she needs to know, and conveys it in a way that's satisfying because it is purposeful.

Scene endings are particularly crucial in a book's most important scenes: those in which a major change or revelation is occurring or has just occurred (perhaps a good way to identify these things is to zone in on those which make use of all three of those aforementioned Ways to Advance Your Story). Important scenes often end with a clincher which nudges the reader's emotions, and thus their perception of the book, in a certain direction. For a very character-based film like Up in the Air, a quiet and very subtle clincher conveys the appropriate emotion perfectly by leaving the viewers' expectations unmet and allowing them to experience some of Bingham's disappointment. For an action-based book, a thrilling cliffhanger might be exactly what's called for. And for a supernatural romance, perhaps the perfect clincher is the long-awaited kiss -- or a close call that ends without a kiss, but with some sort of self-discovery.

Whatever your story, now might be a good time to think about how you're ending your scenes, and what the manner in which you tell your story adds to the story itself. Remember, your story belongs to your character, but its telling is yours and yours alone. You make the decisions: when to cut, when to go on, when to zoom in on your character's thoughts and when to move back for a sweeping view of events. Questioning those decisions in every scene, no matter how small, will help you strengthen your writing, develop a voice, and more powerfully convey both action and character development.