Holden Caulfield once said: “I hate actors. They never act like people. They just think they do.”

As a self-described “theatre person,” this Salinger quote lives with me. I think about it every time I attend or perform in a show. And Holden’s got a point. Actors, especially on stage, seldom act like real people. They are too precise and articulate. There is very little small talk in their lives. They tend not to eat. Dialog pops and crackles along so quickly, playwrights are frequently temped to write the dramatic pause (beat) into the repartee.

As Tom Stoppard points out in The Real Thing, the difference between the dialog in a play and conversation in real life is the “thinking time” between lines.  While this is true, I don’t blame the actors. They can only be as good as their material.

Clearly – writers are the problem.

The breakneck pace of wit, conflict, and resolution is just as apparent in books. How often is an aggregate lifetime of human cleverness compacted into a 25-word gem that shines at PRECISELY THE RIGHT MOMENT. What about an off-the-cuff exchange that serves up a fatal character flaw, three plot points, and four laugh lines over the course of a page and a half?

These sorts of passages can be examples of excellent writing – but they hardly reflect real life. Life doesn’t conveniently jump-cut from one True Moment to the next. It doesn’t come with danger music or tireless banter. Because life is largely lived on the cutting room floor. The in-betweens. Our lives are crammed full of inner monologues, missed opportunities, and flubbed lines. Waiting rooms. Emails. Driving. A whole lot of nothing, people.

Which is why we need material to READ AND WATCH.

So I arrive at our topic. This week’s posts are about: “Writing Realistic Boys.” The problem is,  I don’t much care about writing realistic boys. I know a lot of real boys. I’m told I was once fairly realistic myself. I’m not overly concerned with writing them, because here’s where realism and art have a nasty collision:

When I was 16, I wasn’t a particularly good writer or clear thinker. I did, however, have the advantage of being 16 years old. Authenticity, perfectly in order. Now, at 32, I have a refined sense of craft and broadened understanding of humanity, but – yeah, I’m also 32.

How much should I worry about that?

Does realism demand I cram my 32-year-old observations into the specific vocabulary and voice of a 16-year-old? Dull the edges of the prose, when necessary, to make it feel authentic? More importantly, does my 16-year-old character need to curse and dwell on sex as much as a REAL 16-year-old boy? Because I remember what that’s like. And it’s a book you aren’t likely to finish.

Do I mean all 16 year-old boys are incoherent and depraved? No.

M.T. Anderson makes a strong case that intelligence is the final taboo in young adult fiction – that young people are much more knowledgeable, mature, and articulate than adults give them credit for. I completely agree. But even if they’re not – it doesn’t matter.

Because in fiction, being realistic just isn’t that important. Should we cut the perfect word because we assume a teenager wouldn’t think it? Alternately – should we, as writers, be forced to create an endless cast of contrived geniuses through which we can channel our pithy, 30-year-old observations? Is the future of young adult literature doomed to a sad parade of excusably overarticulate protagonists – the underachieving geniuses, artistic savants, and budding writers?

That’s missing the point – like writing 10-minutes of silence into a play because sometimes people are quiet.

Where realism counts isn’t in pacing or in language. It’s in emotional authenticity. And I write for young adults because the world of the teenager is overflowing with emotion. Most of us have long since been teenagers. But the discoveries in those years, and their associated feelings, take time to understand, and even more time to write. The telling may require more words, spoken at a faster clip, than a realistic 16-year-old would be able to muster, page after page, scene after scene.

But this isn’t life. It’s art.

So use words as well as you can to build me a bridge from your pages and into your mind. Build it more beautiful than real. Make me think. Make me cry. Or lift me out of life’s waiting room and give me someplace more interesting to explore.

And don’t sweat Holden Caulfield’s opinion of realism. It was developed with a little help from a 32-year-old – so I’m sure he’d understand.

We’ve lost Jeff. He doesn’t respond to e-mails and, when I left him a voice message on his phone, not only was it not returned, the next time I tried to call him the number had been disconnected.

I’m trying not to think about that movie Taken, you know the one. Liam Neeson is an ex-CIA agent and some sketchy Europeans take his daughter. But they should’ve known Qui-gon doesn’t mess around. He gets righteous on them. He gets his daughter back.

I am no Qui-gon. And Jeff’s ass just might stay took. Because Boys Don’t Read prefers its conflict to remain online.

The problem, of course, is our Monday post. Sure, we have technically planned our posts. There were e-mails sent and replies that went something like, “Looks good!” We are nothing if not organized. But the key to that organization is Jeff. And more specifically, Jeff’s Monday post. Which did not happen.

Without our Monday topic, we’re lost – what was it that we were to talk about? Covers? Love Triangles? The Printz Award?

I know – we’re all starting to freak out. We’re asking ourselves the obvious questions: was Jeff under some hotel bed, frantically trying to dial my number? Did I miss the call? Was he pulled from under the bed with the expected cinematic flare?

We do not know. We know nothing at this time.

Except: there was no Monday topic.

Now, if this was some kind of call out – some design to make Jeff feel bad for not posting on time, then it wouldn’t matter to much. But no. This is nothing of the sort. I am generally concerned for Jeff’s well being.

And how there was no Monday topic.

So please, if you see Jeff – comment here. The person with the best story will win a free book.

And remember: Only you can prevent another Monday being wasted.

Jason and Bob stocked shelves on the third shift. I ran the register. All of us were failures in our own particular way. Jason was always looking for a fight, and never seemed to be without a female companion. Bob used to be a professional clown; now he lived in a Salvation Army shelter. I had just dropped out of college. Most nights, Jason came to my register telling me about whatever girl he had met that night. Bob had a radar for this kind of talk and soon enough he’d be standing up there too, telling us about his younger days. Telling us about the strange.

“That’s what I call—“

“I got it,” I told him.

Bob smiled, half his teeth missing, as he took a sip from his coffee. They probably could’ve paid him in Folgers and he would’ve been happy.

“Did I ever tell you about the time…”

All Bob’s stories were the same. They painted a picture of Bob as a younger man and featured some unbelievable woman – always described with painful detail. And no matter how implausible, Bob worked his magic. There were stories of late night trysts, stuff that sounded more like something from late night cable than real life. Others were life-long friends who turned into so much more. But no matter what happened, no matter how the story twisted, in the end it always came back to one definitive point: Bob got him some strange.

After, he’d cackle and shuffle back to the aisles, disappearing for an hour before I’d see him again. But that night was different. Bob was inspired.

“You got yourself a lady?” he asked. And I didn’t. I had broken up with a girl a few months before – typical summer romance. She went to school and I didn’t, end of story. I had gone on some dates, but nothing worth mentioning – especially to Bob. Because all my endings  would’ve been just as confounding to Bob – kisses on porches, nights spent listening to music. The stuff of amateurs.

“Not really,” I said.

Bob shook his head. Kids these days.

“All young bucks need a filly.”

I guess I should mention that Bob liked metaphors – especially if they involved hoofed animals. Bucks, stallions, mare, nag, steed – take your pick. Before I knew what happened, Bob was knee deep in another story. This one about a clown convention and how he met this bronco of a woman in the bar and, well, it kind of went downhill from there.

Jason came up near the end, maybe he was wondering where Bob went. They had an agreement – Jason would do the work and Bob would keep him company. It seemed to work out well.

Bob pointed at me.

“This boy needs a lady.”

Jason considered me for a moment. He smiled. I should’ve known better.

**

The next day, Jason was in the parking lot, leaning against his truck. The sun was high and we both should’ve still been sleeping – another late night shift waited for us. But there I was. Maybe it was hope, or maybe it was being so close to Jason and Bob for those past months – conquerors in so many ways. Perhaps I just wanted to take a chance, for once. To have some faith. Whatever it was, when I pulled in next to him, he smiled and led me into the store.

It looked different during the day. More civilized, maybe. Moms pushed carts filled with food and kids. The other employees looked foreign – names on a schedule. I couldn’t remember the last time I had worked with anybody other than Jason and Bob.

Jason led me back to the stock room, to the little cage of an office that housed the only computer in the store; it was also the official training spot for all new employees. Before we pushed our way through the back doors, Jason put a hand on my shoulder.

“Listen, I’ve known this girl forever and she’s nice. She just needs somebody to take her out and show her a good time. So give her a chance.”

This, of course, was not good. Jason was about as equal opportunity as they came, and I had witnessed some of the girls he’d brought into the store – the type who looked like they rode bulls and could easily have kicked my ass – so the caveats were… concerning.

“I don’t know,” I said. Because this wasn’t me. I didn’t just stroll up to girls – a woman! – and casually point at them and say Hey. You, Me – Tonight. If anything, my Big Move involved waiting around until they got frustrated and asked me out. And then we’d hit Olive Garden.

“Listen, I’m going to stand right here and watch–”

“You’re not coming in there with me?”

“I’m not about to come in there and ruin your game,” he says. “Just go in there and tell her you want to take her out tonight. Tell her I sent you.”

I studied his face. He nodded. I took a deep breath. And then I turned around and pushed through the swinging doors.

When I got to the cage, I saw her hair first – long and brown and down her back like a cape. She must have heard me coming – probably thought I was a supervisor coming to pull her away from this purgatory – because she turned around.

And damn. Jason had done me a solid. She was beautiful, near perfect in every way. And maybe this was just a reaction to the fortress I’d built in my mind – the nice guy response that would force me to ask her out, even if she looked like Jason, stringy mustache and all. But no. This would be easy. I introduced myself.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you work here?”

“I work with Jason,” I said. Smooth. In control. She could see this. She smiled.

“I’ve known Jason forever. He’s a great guy.”

And he was. A saint. But nevermind about him. Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the good things and bad things that may be. It was the 90′s.

“This sucks,” I said, pointing to the computer – to the test she was taking. Smooth. She smiled, nodded – it was working. In my mind, I heard myself say something like, But you know what doesn’t suck? Us going out tonight…

And the way her face changed, it occurred to me that it wasn’t in my mind. That I just had asked her out. She looked shocked. It was to be expected.

“Oh,” she said, speechless.

We would be the stuff people wrote songs about. People would say, Lloyd and Diane WHO? I was a boom box away from being legendary.

I smiled. I mentioned Olive Garden.

But then she said: “I have a fiancee. Jason didn’t… tell you?”

If I could move, I would’ve seen Jason doubled over, laughing. I could hear him behind me, but I was using all of my effort to keep myself from throwing up.

**

I recently saw picture that read: “Bad Decisions Make Good Stories.” There are few things in my life I regret more than walking into that training room – especially when, a week later, I found out her fiancee had just done some time for beating some dude that looked at her. But, at the same time, walking into that room – hearing her say the word fiancee and, later, chasing Jason around the store with intent to do harm – is something invaluable. Because there have been few times in my life when I have felt more stupid, more vulnerable – more flawed. Maybe we need to make a mess of our lives so we can understand a little better. Otherwise, we’re doomed to create stories that live in some fictional world – a place where the hero always wins and the girl, fiance or not, is always wooed.

**

That night, Bob came as an emissary. I read my magazine and he drank his coffee. Neither of us spoke until Jason came up to the front, a napkin tied to a plastic fork. Even then, I had nothing to say.

“I figured you would see the rock on her finger,” he said. “I never thought you’d actually ask her out.”

“Hell, you don’t want no woman who’s looking to get hitched when she’s 19 years old,” Bob said. “What you need is a woman who’s looking to get unhitched. One of them mothers with a minivan. You hear me, boy?”

“That’s right,” Jason said. “Bob speaks the truth.”

Bob drained his coffee cup and stood up. “This reminds me of the time when I was hitchhiking across the country…”

I think you know how this story ends.

Once again, we bring you the top searches that led you, our readers, to Boys Don’t Read. Our only hope for the new year is that these people might find the websites they are looking for.

1.) 1st+edition+black+lotus+magic+the+gathering

While we’re pretty sure you don’t need quite so many “+’s” in your search, we applaud the worth of your search. And I’m sorry to say that you will not find any Black Lotus cards here, friend. A legendary card with 0 casting cost, if you can find one – and a group that will actually let you play it – good for you. May we suggest a black-red deck, straight to a fireball. You’re welcome.

2.) boys don’t read ya

Well, we tend to disagree. Of course boys read us. We have the comments to prove it. Not only do they read us, they tend to enjoy us, friend. And, if we may, the use of “ya” kind of went out of style with Marky Mark, right? Nobody likes slang – especially the kind so steeped in 90′s pop culture. Next time you visit, please do us a favor and use the grammatically correct spelling: you.

3.) nes joystick

We are fans. The amount of buttons on most controllers (and let us correct you for a moment, the NES had a controller, not a joystick…) is confounding. Do you need an X? A triangle? Of course not. Give us the simplicity of A and B.

4.) the mountains of ignorance

We are pretty sure they can be found in Tennessee.

5.) superhero team

Glad you found us.

6.) boys+watching+tv

= Harvard educated.

7.) boys don’t read

We’ve been saying the same thing. Nobody will listen.

*Happy New Year