In the dreamy late-summer days before the fall semester began, I spent a few hours in a local Barnes and Noble reading from Sarah Dessen's new novel, Along for the Ride. Dessen, who grew up a few blocks from me and went to my high school, is now a wildly successful novelist whose books are primarily about, and aimed at, teen girls. Not my normal stomping grounds, but, curious to know what Sarah's writing is like, and wondering what the year 2023 might hold for me as a dad, I rather sheepishly strode into the Teen Literature section of the bookstore, and grabbed one of two copies of the handsome hardback.
Pretty soon, I was an 18-year-old girl, moving to the beach to spend the summer before college with my dad and his new wife, and baby girl. Dessen's writing isn't airy, or erudite (indeed, it's often not even polysyllabic: a rather typical sentence, rhythmically, is this one: "When she saw me, she shrieked"). But it's got the frictionless quality of broadly popular prose, and Dessen is clearly able to create a psychological landscape that strikes many readers as compelling. Her book, I wound up thinking, is something like yoga as it's taught in most American gyms: instead of aiming at philosophical complexity, it poses modest challenges in a simplified context, with a vague and unspoken assurance that all will turn out well. There are morals, but they're diffuse; the central thing, Dessen's prose seems to suggest, is that we're in this together.
And, to be honest, I was surprised by the degree to which I was in the book. Auden, the pretty protagonist and narrator, has a mom who's a talented English professor, and her dad was once a talented writer; in Auden's early years, they'd lived in a university town. Hey, I know that basic setting; it's the one that Sarah and I and so many of our classmates grew up in. And the beach, a few hours away? Well, Dessen's readers will all supply their own memories, but for me it was Topsail Island, a modest drive from my hometown.
But here's what really struck me, as I read further. In the novel, Auden's a voice of reason; it's the adults who keep mucking things up. Her mom studies women in literature, but can't enjoy speaking with actual, living women, and she falls into bed with grad students who don't even appeal to her teenaged daughter. And Auden's dad? A failed father, twice, he's more given to stare at his blank computer monitor as he tries to compose his long-overdue second novel than he is to help his second wife with their new infant. And so on: it's easy to see why such a plot might appeal to teen readers. Adults are cast as bumbling and even self-destructive; they're the wildcards in a teen world of relative clarity.
Which, of course, is exactly the opposite of the narrative that adults usually prefer. Don't those of us over, say, 25, imagine that we live relatively ordered and clearly motivated lives, all of which will eventually be thrown into chaos by our ravenous, fashion-hungry, id-driven teens? Sure, there may be a few Alex P. Keatons out there, but I think that adults usually see teens as the inconsistent and self-destructive ones.
So, as usual, the lens matters. Babies probably see us as unpredictable and arbitrary as we bundle them into their car seats, only to remove them 15 minutes later; in the meantime, we wonder at their seemingly wild and unordered motions. On a larger level, Americans love to characterize the French, with their Euro work weeks, as lazy, only to find that the French cast Americans as consumed by their work and unable to enjoy the good things in life. Is there, then, no single truth? Maybe none beyond the conviction that whoever we happen to be is in the right, and whoever they are - well, they could use a little work. Happy Labor Day.
Pretty soon, I was an 18-year-old girl, moving to the beach to spend the summer before college with my dad and his new wife, and baby girl. Dessen's writing isn't airy, or erudite (indeed, it's often not even polysyllabic: a rather typical sentence, rhythmically, is this one: "When she saw me, she shrieked"). But it's got the frictionless quality of broadly popular prose, and Dessen is clearly able to create a psychological landscape that strikes many readers as compelling. Her book, I wound up thinking, is something like yoga as it's taught in most American gyms: instead of aiming at philosophical complexity, it poses modest challenges in a simplified context, with a vague and unspoken assurance that all will turn out well. There are morals, but they're diffuse; the central thing, Dessen's prose seems to suggest, is that we're in this together.
And, to be honest, I was surprised by the degree to which I was in the book. Auden, the pretty protagonist and narrator, has a mom who's a talented English professor, and her dad was once a talented writer; in Auden's early years, they'd lived in a university town. Hey, I know that basic setting; it's the one that Sarah and I and so many of our classmates grew up in. And the beach, a few hours away? Well, Dessen's readers will all supply their own memories, but for me it was Topsail Island, a modest drive from my hometown.
But here's what really struck me, as I read further. In the novel, Auden's a voice of reason; it's the adults who keep mucking things up. Her mom studies women in literature, but can't enjoy speaking with actual, living women, and she falls into bed with grad students who don't even appeal to her teenaged daughter. And Auden's dad? A failed father, twice, he's more given to stare at his blank computer monitor as he tries to compose his long-overdue second novel than he is to help his second wife with their new infant. And so on: it's easy to see why such a plot might appeal to teen readers. Adults are cast as bumbling and even self-destructive; they're the wildcards in a teen world of relative clarity.
Which, of course, is exactly the opposite of the narrative that adults usually prefer. Don't those of us over, say, 25, imagine that we live relatively ordered and clearly motivated lives, all of which will eventually be thrown into chaos by our ravenous, fashion-hungry, id-driven teens? Sure, there may be a few Alex P. Keatons out there, but I think that adults usually see teens as the inconsistent and self-destructive ones.
So, as usual, the lens matters. Babies probably see us as unpredictable and arbitrary as we bundle them into their car seats, only to remove them 15 minutes later; in the meantime, we wonder at their seemingly wild and unordered motions. On a larger level, Americans love to characterize the French, with their Euro work weeks, as lazy, only to find that the French cast Americans as consumed by their work and unable to enjoy the good things in life. Is there, then, no single truth? Maybe none beyond the conviction that whoever we happen to be is in the right, and whoever they are - well, they could use a little work. Happy Labor Day.
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