As an official YA writer I am contractually obligated to discuss the passing of JD Salinger: genius, creep, possible Howard Hughes-esque own urine drinker. When I was 13, I read the Catcher in the Rye in one day. Could. Not. Stop. Reading. The velocity of the voice and the obsessive adoration of each and every word from Holden's mouth was no doubt, the inspiration for a zillion writers. But it is this very -OMG I can't put it down because [insert main character's name] is so totally me!- feeling that I aspire to in my own work, YA or otherwise.
Move me. And make it quick. Amuse and depress me simultaneously. Speak clearly and confuse me. And of course, what made Catcher in the Rye so amazing to me was that my mother: HATED IT. Wha? I know! I don't understand the loathing either. I think she just didn't get it. And then there was the whole murdering of John Lennon connection and that was it. Salinger will forever have a line through his name in my mother's book. As for me, I say a million thank yous, and adieu.
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