A question: right now, are we writing YA for teenagers, aged 12 through 19, or are we writing YA for those of us not-so-young-anymore adults who devour them? I don’t have an answer to this question, but it’s something to think about.
Selden and Lily stood still, accepting the unreality of the scene as a part of their own dream-like sensations. It would not have surprised them to feel a summer breeze on their faces, or to see the lights among the boughs reduplicated in the arch of a starry sky. The strange solitude about them was no stranger than the sweetness of being alone in it together. — Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth
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