At the grand old age of 25, I fully realize I am no longer the target audience for Young Adult literature. Though I admit that I find it increasingly difficult to relate to a teenage protagonist, and high school drama really does just bore me to tears, I can’t seem to get enough of good old YA. And I can’t help but wonder; why, eh? (I apologize, that was inexcusable…) I guess my affinity for YA lit has to do with the fact that it didn’t really exist when I was a young adult myself. Sure, there have undoubtedly been stories aimed at young adults since the beginning of time, all dealing with themes of growth, identity, angst and so forth. But it has only been in recent years that YA became n genre. When I was younger, the Harry Potters were bundled in with the Very Hungry Caterpillars, and it was tough to find literature to guide me through such a rough, hormonal period in my life. I think when I was sixteen I weaved …

Back in 2009, Michael Jackson’s death was the biggest piece of celebrity news in my eyes. His was the first celebrity death that I had ever been truly affected by, and given the number of people at my uni who couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks, I’d say a great number of people my age felt the same way. I remember sitting with a group of friends and talking about how the world (or at least the UK) hadn’t been in such an intense state of mourning since the death of Lady Di. We each wondered whose death would be the next one as hard-hitting as MJ’s. I can’t remember whose names we threw around, but I remember we settled on Nelson Mandela.

Let me tell you a little story… My friend Jim and I had just been to see The Fault in our Stars (excellent film, by the way). We were happily discussing it when a Facebook notification popped up on my phone from a friend who shall be referred to as K. She posted a video on my wall accompanied with the comment: “Did you see this? Makes me think of Jim every time!!!”