I was minding my own business. Really, being a thirty-something male in the YA section is risky enough. I wasn’t about to go around making eye contact. My family was across the street waiting for a pizza. I was killing time. That’s when the employee came up.

“Hey, you know young adult literature.”

I nodded, tried to look knowledgable. This particular employee and I had just finished having a discussion about IMAGINARY GIRLS, which she had just finished..

“This woman is looking for a book for her granddaughter, and I’m having a hard time…”

They should make a cape for such occasions. I was in my element. I would help this woman find a book that just might change her teenage granddaughter’s life. I would save the day.

“She is a bit…” Her voice trailed off as the woman approached us, looking stern. After we were introduced, I asked about her granddaughter – what she liked to read.

“She comes from a very religious family,” the woman explained. Normally, this would raise a red flag. But I felt comfortable. I speak Evangelical.

“I work at a church,” I assured her. I told her of my seminary degree, my career spent molding the teenage theological mind. Unimpressed, she turned to the shelf, pulling down a copy of a book that featured a dragon on the cover. Her reaction was as I expected. There would be no dragons in her granddaughter’s future.

After suggesting a few titles, I picked up a copy of Lisa Schroeder’s book, THE DAY BEFORE. I told her the premise. Even though she was six inches shorter, it seemed as if she was peering down at me.

“I don’t know if I want my granddaughter reading about… love.” She spit out the word. “It might lead her to unwholesome thoughts.”

“Oh, well… I would let my daughter read it. You know, if she were a teenager.”

She looked at me again, telling me everything I needed to know about that.

I scanned the shelves again. Suzanne Young… Steve Brezenoff… Kelly Barnhill… Jeff Hirsch… It was suddenly obvious that all of my writer friends are nothing if not fantastically unwholesome. And then it occurred to me. I was not looking far enough down the bookshelf.

Sara Zarr.

I’m not sure if I would describe Sara as wholesome (this is not a sleight – Sara is awesome. I’m just not sure what it means to be wholesome. But I would learn…) I had just finished HOW TO SAVE A LIFE and it had blown me away. Here was a book that dealt with love – and not that sinful, fornicating type of love. No, this was real love. The love of friendship and family. The sort of love a good church-going woman could get behind with conviction normally reserved for Sunday morning.

In a word, wholesome.

She picked up the book, studied the cover. I could tell by the way her claws had retracted that her defenses were down. I made my pitch.

“It’s about a teenage girl who lost her father,” I started. “And another girl who is pregnant and…”

The woman’s eyes focused on me, then narrowed. “Teen… pregnancy?”

“Yeah, but it’s not what you’re thinking,” I said.

“Teen pregnancy?”

“They live together and the one girl’s mother becomes…”

I could tell this wasn’t going well. I changed course.

“She’s already pregnant when the book starts,” I offered. “So it’s not happening, you know, on the page or anything.”

“Unwholesome…” she muttered.

“Really – it is probably one of the best books I’ve read in the past five years. It deals with family and friendship and how love is bigger than–”

“UnWholeSome…”

The employee stepped back. I tried one last time.

“I know Sara, and she is a really great–”

“UNWHOLESOME!”

The woman showed me the book, as if to convict me, and said, “We do not allow our granddaughter to read about…” her voice dropped to a whisper, “…boinking.”

(Okay, she didn’t say boinking. But I really, really wish she had.)

“That’s not what the story’s about, though,” I said.

Despite everything, I wanted her to hear me. I wanted her granddaughter to get a book that would speak to her, and maybe even challenge her. But she wasn’t hearing it. She put the book back on the shelf and began picking up other books. (In case you’re wondering, THE BOOK THIEF is unwholesome, as well as THE HUNGER GAMES and – after trying a different tact and age level – WHEN YOU REACH ME.)

After multiple attempts, I gradually separated from the madness, occasionally picking up snippets of the conversation between the woman and the bookseller. As I was leaving to re-join my family, I saw the woman pick up a copy of John Green’s LOOKING FOR ALASKA. She studied the cover, then looked to the store’s employee.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Totally wholesome.”

This week, Boys Don’t Read takes it to the streets. Three male, young-adult authors will embed themselves in the YA section of a local bookstore and report on what they find — if they survive. And if they don’t get kicked out for looking creepy.

So it begins:

After a few awkward solicitations of strangers for interviews, I finally found a young adult who was willing to talk. Likely because she could tell with one glance she was smarter than I was.

Then I found this lady, and my creeper alarm went nuts. Not a young adult, yet inexplicably lurking among them. What was her story — and could I risk blowing my cover to ask?

On the way out, I talked to an alleged member of the Smith Family — a woman who worked among physical copies of books and actual young adults. Even with her career endangered by devices such as the smartphone, she still had the courage to be recorded by one:

And there you have it. One afternoon in the trenches. Among real young adults and the books they’re reading. If you liked what you saw, I suggest you track down your nearest bookstore. Put on a hip T-shirt, some black glasses, and head out into the wild. You’ll blend just fine, and there’s nothing quite like being there in person.

[WARNING: Numerous S-words to follow. Reader discretion is hilarious.]

I like that expression: under the influence. When I’m writing—

(Wait a second. I’m always writing.)

Okay, when I’m knee-deep in the stinky shit that is a first draft that’s lost its way, feeling disoriented and confused and covered up to my knees in shit—

(That’s more like it.)

—I do not read. Listen, I’m not a big reader anyway. I’m really not! I’m slow as hell, for one thing, so when I pick up a book, it better be near perfect, otherwise I am not about to waste my time getting past page twenty-five. That might sound cruel, excessively judgmental, stupidly and willfully short-sighted, but I’ll repeat myself: Slow. As. Hell.

So when I do read, and then finish something, it’s always Grade-A Prime, and that’s the first time I’ve used that expression to talk about anything other than beef, and yet it still sounds vaguely objectifying. Moving on. The point is I can’t read when I’m deep in a draft, because if I do, it will be something life-changingly astonishing and perfect, and if that’s the case then it will influence me, and if it influences me . . .

Well, if it influences me then my work-in-progress and the thick lake of mud shit it is festering within are about to become even more disorienting and unfathomable.

And that’s why I like that expression so much. My influences aren’t merely what have shaped me as a writer, blended with each other in the frappe machine in my brain to become my authorial voice, or played upon my psyche to provide the themes and motifs I most frequently return to in my own work. They are also a great weight, and they sit on my head and my shoulders like boulders, making crossing that lake of mud shit all the more difficult. (Maybe impossible! Can you imagine crossing a lake of mud shit while carrying a bunch of heavy-ass rocks? I can’t! Well . . . I can imagine it, I suppose, and I imagine it would positively suck.)

So “under the influence.” Yeah, I’m under it all right, and could you please get it off me? Because I’m sinking deeper into the mud shit, and once it reaches my chin, I swear to god I’m gonna hurl.

At a recent writer’s group meeting, the presenter held up a copy of some Stephen King book and said, “Only read things you can write.”

I counted to ten, tried those deep breathing exercises I learned in yoga. It didn’t help. I sat there, listening and wishing my phone had coverage in that steel-clad building. Oh yes, Twitter would feel my rage.

As her presentation progressed, the initial comment made more sense. It could’ve easily been: “These people have written for years, decades – their entire life. Give yourself a break.” Because that is true. That is the sort of information fledgling writers need to hear. And maybe some of us *cough* experienced writers need to hear it, too – that we’re not bound by the things that appear on the page. That we can turn away and start over.

But she didn’t say that. Instead, her inability to choose clarity over hyperbole brought images of Ryan Gosling to my mind.

Uh… just… watch this:

Now, if you haven’t seen CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE – go now. Rent it. Download it. Do something. This is a movie you will appreciate. Once you have seen it, come back and partake in Boys Don’t Read. We’ll wait.

If you have seen the movie, you know that Cal is a fashion horror. We’re talking K-mart khakis. Clearance polo shirt. White running shoes. He’s a fanny pack away from making CRAZY a horror movie. And Ryan Gosling is… well, he’s not Cal, right? He’s flashy. He’s hip. He’s who you want to be. (Don’t lie to yourself.)

As I sat in the basement of that church, I thought: “Ryan Gosling would slap this lady. For real.”

Because, as writers, we need to take chances, to write freely and without regard to what people might think. The biggest enemy a writer has is timidness. You have to be willing to take a chance – to fail.

You may have guessed how this happens: you have to read books. Big books, with sentences that make your breath catch and your heart race. Books that challenge you as a reader and as a writer. And may I suggest that Stephen King can challenge you – he can show you the importance of story, just as someone like Faulkner can show you what is possible with words.

And I think, if you write for children, that you should read books written for adults. The same goes for adult authors – pick up a YA book. Sequestering ourselves in a certain part of the bookstore (or library) won’t help us grow. If anything, we will become self-referential and, ultimately, irrelevant.

(And now on to the actual blog topic.)

I don’t know if it matters whether you read while writing. To me, it doesn’t. Sometimes I do, other times I do not. But if you are ever going to be serious about writing, you have to become serious about reading. And that means challenging yourself. It means opening your mind to supposed hacks and torturous windbags. Because not doing so robs you of your potential to do good work. And worse: it robs the reader. Without sounding too much like your high school guidance counselor, you can be anybody you want to be.

Except maybe Kafka. I think we all need to have reasonable goals.

But beyond that tall ceiling, knock yourself out. Be flashy (but not purple.) Take a chance. Be better than you thought you could be.

You knew it was coming….

Be better than the Gap.

If I really like your book, I may never finish it. Don’t take it personally.

I can tell in the first five pages. If I start hanging on every word, admiring the sentence structure, analyzing the nuances of tone – forget it.  Done. I’ll shut the book and walk away. At least until I’m finished with my first draft.

This recently came up with Nova Ren Suma’s book, IMAGINARY GIRLS. Bryan accosted me outside a bookstore in Corvallis, the book tucked under his arm. “Dude, you have to read this. Just open it. Read the first page.”

I did.

“So damn good. So damn good,” he muttered, shaking his head.

I agreed. It was so damn good. I went in and bought the book, anticipating the flow of exquisite language, the unraveling of complex characters and themes. I drove home and made some coffee. I got my chair ready and had two full hours to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Then I hit page five, closed the book ,and retired IMAGINARY GIRLS to the Five Page Graveyard. A week later, Bryan asked me about the book.

“No, I haven’t finished,” I said. “Can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“It’s too good.”

I recognized the silence on the other end of the line from my days working in a treatment center for the mentally ill.  But when Bryan asked me to explain, it was the first time I recognized the books in the graveyard for what they were:

Influential. Full of damn good writing that affects how I think about language, voice, and character development. Here’s the problem:

My writing style is easily influenced. Prone to jumping off bridges. If my writing style were a college freshman, it would be a broke, chain-smoking alcoholic by the end of its first semester, likely selling magazines door-to-door in some shitty pyramid scheme.

It’s not all bad. My writing style is fun at parties. A great mingler. I once wanted to write a science fiction novella with a film-noir feel. I read MY GUN IS QUICK by Mickey Spillane and BOOM. Nailed it. When I wanted to write about love and loneliness, I picked up EVERYTHING RAVAGED, EVERYTHING BURNED by Wells Tower and hammered out two of the best short stories I’ve ever written.

Unfortunately, this technique doesn’t work for novels. Because novels take forever. Long enough to read plenty of books. And there’s nothing quite like writing a first person narrative in which your protagonist sounds like Sam Spade in Chapter 1, Holden Caulfield in Chapter 3, and Hunter S. Thompson by Chapter 7.

And there’s another issue: Am I committing stylistic plagiarism? Maybe. I can’t even argue that it’s unintentional, since I’m choosing my reading based on the type of story I want to write. I’ve heard this shouldn’t be a problem: that a True Writer’s voice is unwavering; being easily influenced is the stuff of youth and inexperience. I told myself that story for a few years. Problem was, sometimes I told it like Jack Kerouac. In uglier moments, I told it like Charles Bukowski. You get the picture.

So either 1) I will eventually develop enough as a writer to be stylistically bulletproof. 2) I will never, ever grow out of this.

I’m inclined to believe the latter. Mainly because I’ve never grown out of a lot of things. That’s part of the reason I write about teenagers.

The unfortunate consequence is, I still haven’t read Nova’s book. She remains in the noble Five Page Graveyard, nuzzled in her own plot between Jonathan Lethem and Laini Taylor, where they wait for my eventual late-stage revision, my first book deal, or the apocalypse.

I have no solution. Perhaps I could arrange my reading material as carefully as a music playlist. Put novels in a thematically and semantically synchronized order to boost my creativity while maintaining a consistent voice.  Maybe. But God — really?  That seems even more exhausting than conference networking.

At this point I’m sticking with the few minimalists who don’t move the needle on my voice. Raymond Carver, Tobias Wolff. Also, collections of short stories. Stage plays and screenplays.

Because voice is that important — and I’d like to join the ranks of Nova, Laini, and Jonathan. I want to write a book that’s too good to read.

YA is filled with guys who make girls swoon. At Boys Don’t Read, we know nothing about this. But we do know real guys. And more importantly: we know who we’d hang out with. So when Novel Novice asked us to participate in a blog collaboration, we couldn’t resist. They will discuss the romantic potential of six YA guys – the Wow factor. We will tell you if we’d game with them – the WoW (World of Warcraft) factor – or whether they’d be left in the cold with their abnormal abs and mane-like hair. When the smoke clears – when all the XP has been allocated – the world will be a better place. And you will know what it means to be a real dude.

Cricket Bell is the type of guy who will make you look at the wrinkled corduroys and Star Wars t-shirt you’re wearing and think, “I need to up my game.” Because there he is with his hip pants and mad scientist hair, making your girlfriend laugh while you’re brushing the Pringles crumbs off your lap.

I mean, sure – this is a guy who will most likely show up to play video games in some hipster suit. And he probably takes way too long to get ready. Throw in the fact that he’s smart and everything he says makes the ladies swoon, and you’re left with the sort of guy we at Boys Don’t Read would normally skewer.

But I can’t help it. I like him. I like Cricket. (Hell, I kind of want to be him.)

And yes, we’d have to think of a nickname. Because god-given or not, it’s going to be hard times if I have to yell out, Yo, Cricket! in any social situation – even if we live in San Francisco. And I’m sure we could come up with something - C-train… Cotter… Cooter… Crick…

But it doesn’t matter, because sooner or later he’d mess up. He’d say something ridiculous. Or he’d spend too much time messing with his hair. We’d start calling him Product or Swoon or, maybe, R. Pattz 2.0 

And he’d be cool with it. Because Cricket, ultimately, is a nice guy. He lets you know how he feels. More than that: he’s not afraid to be a guy who feels things deeply, who can apologize and be better than the stupid shit he’s done.

Too many books and movies and middle school hallways tell us that, in order for boys to get girls to like them, they need to become The Asshole. But here’s the thing: Assholes are Assholes. All day long. And that doesn’t end when they walk into the room to hang out with their buddies.

And nobody wants that. Nobody wants to deal with the guy who comes up behind you and pulls your pants down in front of a crowded lunchroom, while the girl of your dreams just happens to be watching. And you cry. In front of everyone. Standing there in your Batman underwear. Your freshman year. Crying.

You know, hypothetically.

But not Cricket. He may have his issues, his skeletons – but he’s not going to be that guy. And for that reason alone, I’m willing to overlook the fact that he’s near-perfect, that he says things that might make me roll my eyes or, worse, have my own girlfriend look at me and say, “How come YOU never say things like that!”

I can deal with all of this, very simply, because I’d like to see more Crickets in the YA world. Guys who aren’t afraid to be themselves, to love and laugh and be true to their friends. And, you know, for them to actually get the girl at the end of the book.

Because nobody wants the Asshole to win, even if he has ivory skin and abs that are chiseled out of marble.

Verdict: I’d teach him the best places to mine Gold in WoW and he could help me understand the benefit of “slim cut” shirts. That’s mutually beneficial, holmes.

YA is filled with guys who make girls swoon. At Boys Don’t Read, we know nothing about this. But we do know real guys. And more importantly: we know who we’d hang out with. So when Novel Novice asked us to participate in a blog collaboration, we couldn’t resist. They will discuss the romantic potential of six YA guys – the Wow factor. We will tell you if we’d game with them – the WoW (World of Warcraft) factor – or whether they’d be left in the cold with their abnormal abs and mane-like hair. When the smoke clears – when all the XP has been allocated – the world will be a better place. And you will know what it means to be a real dude.

Cassel knows the angles. He figures the cost, the benefit, the blowback, and how he’s getting his. And the guy loves the game. He loves the game so goddamn much it’s sick. So I’ll go ahead and overlook the handsome. I’ll overlook the strong jaw and superhuman powers and the likelihood that my girlfriend will keep touching his arm at our next party.

Because I want Cassel on my side of the table. In my raid. Driving the getaway car – depending on the kind of night we’re having. Because Cassel is a Natural Born Gamer.

First of all, this dude’s got no problem taking the creative leap. When I pull out my Dungeon Master Hat, unfurl my hex mat and and throw down my Crown Royal bag, do you think Cassel raises a single gloved finger in alarm? Hell no. Why? First of all — his finger is gloved. Second of all, this guy once stitched rocks INTO HIS LEG because he believed they’d protect him from curses. Like, pieces of gravel. And hey – maybe they will. I don’t judge: I’m a gamer.

Don’t get me wrong. Cassel isn’t getting the key to the back door. Or the combination to the garage. Or a single, solitary moment in a room I don’t happen to be physically standing in. I don’t even like him petting my cat. I feel like they’re conspiring to take over the world between turns. Hell, I feel like Cassel is conspiring with my ottoman to take over the world. He claims it was human once.

That’s what I love about this guy.

I actually wish I could see him more. We’re not as close as we could be, what with his family business and my inability to trust him with so much as a chocolate chip cookie. We need more time. Because Cassel is the kind of the guy whose facade only cracks a little around 3:00 AM, after one too many raids and five too many pixie sticks. Or Zots. Or whatever Cassel’s into throwing back these days. Only when fatigue is starting to pull him apart a little at the edges do you learn anything real. How he feels about his mom and his brothers. Why he won’t take off those damn gloves. How much cash he got fencing your mom’s iPhone 4 last week.

You only get that side of Cassel when you’re both about to fall asleep after a played-out Geek Fest, staring at the lazy ceiling fan and waiting for the dawn to confirm you’ve been awake too long. You’re talking Life, the Universe, and Everything and in the middle of something important, one of you falls asleep. The next morning, Cassel acts like he doesn’t remember a thing. And maybe he doesn’t. Like I said. Dude’s weird.

But the good kind of weird. The fun kind.

That’s why the Boys and I are road-tripping to Vegas with him next week. Bryan and Steve don’t know yet, but I’m sure they’ll come along. We’ll promise them a free hotel, because Cassel says the two of us are coming back millionaires. He’s cutting me in 50/50, and all I’ve got to do is drive. Really — I swear. He gave me his word.

Verdict: Would quest with proper surveillance. Beyond WoW — Vegas, baby. 

Check out what Novel Novice has to say… 

YA is filled with guys who make girls swoon. At Boys Don’t Read, we know nothing about this. But we do know real guys. And more importantly: we know who we’d hang out with. So when Novel Novice asked us to participate in a blog collaboration, we couldn’t resist. They will discuss the romantic potential of six YA guys – the Wow factor. We will tell you if we’d game with them – the WoW (World of Warcraft) factor – or whether they’d be left in the cold with their abnormal abs and mane-like hair. When the smoke clears – when all the XP has been allocated – the world will be a better place. And you will know what it means to be a real dude.

You’d have to worry if Peeta was damaged. Tracker-jacker venom will do that to a man. There would be a time to weigh the risk and reward. But given what I know about the Boys, that would go quick. Because… the guy bakes.

And while some might suggest that baking (and, say, not eating meat) might somehow call into question one’s manliness, I believe the ability to go into the kitchen and whip up some vegan cupcakes is the exact sort of skill a guy needs. Because you never know when you’re going to get a hankering.

At first, it would be a party. Come see Peeta! Try some of his treats! Everybody would be sitting around – smells wafting from behind the closed kitchen doors. And here he comes, carrying a tray of scones into the room. At first, we’d all be like, Hell-to-the-Yeah! Because that’s what we do. That’s how we talk. I’d go AFK and ready myself for some baked goodness.

In the corner of the room, somebody would laugh.

(We would eventually learn not to make sudden movements or sounds. We would know what it was like to live in fear. But that comes later.)

It would happen quick – the glitch coming across his face like a storm. A vacant emptiness would overtake him. Before we could react, he’d have Steve by the throat while Jeff ran to the corner screaming. I’d be left to wrestle this country-fed fool to the ground as he screamed out, “FOR PANEM!” or whatever. And when I finally get him to the floor, he’d crumble. The apologizes and crying would begin immediately.

YA guys. Is it ever going to be worth the trouble?

Sure, you can dust off the scones. And we can always look past a few Man Tears. But it’s all fun and games until somebody has a psychotic episode and starts mangling your dudes. Of course, some people (TEAM PEETA!) will tell you he’s over it – that Tracker-jacker venom doesn’t produce life-long side effects. They’ll point to his time in the cave with Katniss. The quiet moments they shared. How, ultimately, his love for her helped him transcend all the awful things that had happened. They’ll remind you that he is a lover, not a fighter.

But you’d never really know. You’d always be waiting for him to snap and revert back to his days in the Games. And it would only be a matter of time before you came home and found him naked, wrapped in your shower curtain and hiding in the bathtub with a knife,  convinced the Capital was after him.

None of the Boys are equipped for this sort of trip. We’re writers, and not of the Hunter S. Thompson or Ernest Hemingway cut. We prefer choice words and towering proclamations  on things of importance – not guns or actual danger.

So baking or not, Peeta would have to go.

And therein lies the problem, because hell if I’m going to tell him. It goes without saying that, by this time, Jeff and Steve would be out the door. I’d peek into the kitchen, half expecting to see his maniacal eye glaring at me through the crack. And even if he did look happy – I’d know that underneath that downy veneer, there was some psycho bat-shit-crazy just waiting to bubble up.

The only hope is to take him out on March 23rd and walk him around a bit. Pray he catches somebody’s eye. They’d be all Is that… him? I’d play it cool at first. Feign some internal conflict. Maybe I’d even pull one of the croissants from my pocket, waving it casually in front of their face before taking a bite.

It would only be a matter of time. I’d hand over the apron and pat him lightly on the shoulder, whispering in his ear, “You’ve got a new home now. Everything’s going to be ooohhh-kaaayyy.”

I’d back away slowly, smiling and trying not to do anything he might perceive as a threat. I’d change my address. I’d tell myself there is nothing inherently wrong with pastries. I’d heal. But I would always know that Peeta could show up at any time with a spatula in one hand and a baking sheet in the other, his eyes glinting as he said, “Try a danish…”

VERDICT: I’d keep him away from all heavy, blunt objects – including my laptop. No WoW for him.

Check out what Novel Novice has to say… 

YA is filled with guys who make girls swoon. At Boys Don’t Read, we know nothing about this. But we do know real guys. And more importantly: we know who we’d hang out with. So when Novel Novice asked us to participate in a blog collaboration, we couldn’t resist. They will discuss the romantic potential of six YA guys – the Wow factor. We will tell you if we’d game with them – the WoW (World of Warcraft) factor – or whether they’d be left in the cold with their abnormal abs and mane-like hair. When the smoke clears – when all the XP has been allocated – the world will be a better place. And you will know what it means to be a real dude.

Harlin is a cool guy. He wears a leather jacket. He rides a motorcycle. He has cultivated both loner status and the perfect amount of chin stubble.

This, I could handle. I mean, he’s got a good sense of humor, plus the guy eats meat. And a lack of dietary restrictions, especially in Eugene, Oregon, is a male trait to be held in high regard. Harlin, at one point, even brings a dude a bacon cheeseburger without being asked. And an unexpected bacon cheeseburger can go a long way to mend hard feelings between dudes. Even when those hard feelings stem from total, soul-bleeding jealousy. But Harlin can’t let it die with the stubble and the motorcycle. Oh, no.

He has to take it a step further. Why? Because he’s Harlin, goddammit. That’s why.

He ups the badass ante just as I’m finishing up the bacon cheeseburger and getting slowly fatter and more disgusting. (Harlin, notably, has abstained from eating a cheeseburger.) He’s an intelligent dropout. A one-liner-dropping, bedroom-door-closing, good-kissing machine. He also double-fists white wine and appreciates fine art. So now he’s going to out-stubble me AND Goodwill Hunting my ass with his superior knowledge of abstract paintings? I see.

Okay, Harlin. I get it, dude. You’re awesome. Let’s just go get another burger like back in the day –

Oh, wait. You can’t. Why? You have to go see your hot angel of a girlfriend. Fine. Yes, I understand.Oh, you mean she’s an ACTUAL PHYSICAL ANGEL??? Oh, BETTER than an angel? And you’ve been making out with her for how many years?  Yeah, I’m sure she needs you and it’s a serious burden and whatever.

You know what, dude? No, it’s cool. You’ve got too much going on. I get it. Go ahead and hang out at Charlotte’s place. Your brothers and I are going to be experimenting with some superpowers of our own. Warlock and Death Knight stuff. Then some Magic. Yes, they know Magic. I AM being serious. Magic: The Gathering. Yeah. It’s a card game nerds play when we’re not busy making out with angels.

What? Oh, c’mon. Don’t ride away. We can make this cool again! Remember the bacon cheeseburger, Harlin! Remeeeeeembeeeeeer!!!!!

VERDICT: Too cool too quest; unWoWable

Now check out what Novel Novice has to say…

YA is filled with guys who make girls swoon. At Boys Don’t Read, we know nothing about this. But we do know real guys. And more importantly: we know who we’d hang out with. So when Novel Novice asked us to participate in a blog collaboration, we couldn’t resist. They will discuss the romantic potential of six YA guys – the Wow factor. We will tell you if we’d game with them – the WoW (World of Warcraft) factor – or whether they’d be left in the cold with their abnormal abs and mane-like hair. When the smoke clears – when all the XP has been allocated – the world will be a better place. And you will know what it means to be a real dude.

So, the Silver Hair would be a problem. You couldn’t go rolling up to some party with a dude (dressed all Victorian, no less) sporting silver hair – like it isn’t anything – without having a serious Bro Talk. And of course this doesn’t even begin to get at the whole coughing up blood issue. But silver hair or not – demon Ick be damned – Jem is always going to get the invite over the angst-ridden dudes who seem to populate much of YA.

In high school, those guys are expected – they’re in their element. But post-high school, when you’re not forced into a particular social hierarchy, suddenly Mr. Angst-y Eyes doesn’t seem quite as tolerable. His petulance - cursed by some demon or not – will never get an invite to Risk Night.

Because really. Who needs it?

But Jem could hang.

He’s smart and seemingly loyal – the type of guy who wouldn’t try to steal your girlfriend (if you could get one.) And while the Guy Code doesn’t normally encourage this sort of discussion, it’s important to mention that Jem is a nice guy. And that matters. All day long. Because eventually it gets old hanging around the guy who always wants to fight, who thinks it’s fun to cause trouble. Eventually everyone grows up and realizes that thoughtfulness and a gentle nature are the sort of things you want in a dude.

All Jem needs is a little product, and some separation from the people he’s been hanging with. We’d get him out of the doublet/jerkin action and into appropriate attire. Soon enough he’d forget about that girl and that best friend. He’d know there are other girls out there – ones who wouldn’t be torn between Mr. Angst-y Eyes and (there’s no other way to put it…) Kindness. He’d get his own Magic deck (White, most likely) and we’d all fade away into the friendship sunset.

And when the girl ultimately chooses the brooder (they always do), we’ll pile into the minivan and take him out for a night of go-carts and laser tag. Of course, he’d have to be on somebody else’s team because…silver hair and all.

But he’d understand. That’s just how he is.

VERDICT: He could quest with us. WoW certified.

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