Bruce Pollock the Writer

A seventeen-year-old sneaking out to play a club date is living in one kind of novel. A twenty-two-year-old sleeping on a borrowed couch after that same gig, wondering whether the band, the romance, and the rent can survive the month, is living in another. That is the useful starting point for young adult versus new adult fiction: not a cage match between marketing labels, but a difference in where the floor drops out beneath the hero.

Both categories deal in first love, bad decisions, loyalty, humiliation, sex, ambition, and the occasional parental disappointment served cold at breakfast. But they arrange those ingredients differently. Young adult fiction asks what happens as a person begins to claim an identity. New adult fiction asks what happens after the claim is made and the bill arrives.

Young Adult Versus New Adult: The Basic Divide

Young adult, usually shortened to YA, is generally written about protagonists from roughly fourteen through eighteen. Its home turf is high school, family pressure, friendships that feel permanent until Tuesday, and the terrifying realization that everyone expects a decision about the rest of your life before you have learned to drive in snow.

New adult generally follows characters in the eighteen-to-twenty-something range, though there is no sheriff enforcing the border. These protagonists are leaving home, starting college or skipping it, working dead-end jobs, falling into adult relationships, and discovering that freedom has a talent for arriving with late fees. The category grew in response to a conspicuous gap: readers who had aged beyond prom night but were not yet settled into the concerns of conventional adult fiction.

That distinction is less about the number on a driver’s license than the nature of dependence. A YA character may be fighting the authority of parents, teachers, coaches, or a whole small town that knows what happened behind the bowling alley. A new adult character is more likely to be fighting a landlord, a boss, debt, a roommate with poor boundaries, or the person in the mirror who keeps making expensive choices.

The Stakes Change, Even When the Drama Does Not

YA stakes can be enormous. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. Being sixteen and losing your best friend, getting expelled, being exposed online, or learning your parents have lied to you can feel like the end of civilization because, for that character, it nearly is. The world is still compact. School, home, a few streets, a rehearsal space, maybe a diner with bad coffee: these are the borders of the known universe.

New adult widens the map. The character can leave, which is liberating right up until it is not. They can take a job in another city, quit the band, move in with a lover, sleep with the wrong person, drop out, sign a dubious contract, or spend next month’s grocery money on a guitar amp because somebody says the showcase could be their break. In other words, they have agency, and agency is a marvelous machine for producing consequences.

A rock-and-roll story makes the contrast especially clear. In YA, a garage band’s crucial question may be whether its singer can get permission to play a Friday-night battle of the bands. In new adult, the question may be whether the singer can make the van payment after the drummer disappears with the cash box and the romance with the keyboard player goes sour somewhere outside Toledo. Same dream, different hangover.

Voice Is More Telling Than a Birth Date

A manuscript does not become new adult merely because its heroine is nineteen and owns a dorm key. Voice matters. YA often carries the voltage of first recognition. The protagonist sees hypocrisy in adults, cruelty among peers, desire in themselves, and possibility in the world with a freshness that can be funny, furious, and painfully direct.

New adult voices may still be impulsive, but they have begun to acquire scar tissue. These characters know, or are starting to know, that talent is not a meal plan, chemistry is not compatibility, and a person who calls at 2 a.m. may not be calling with good news. They are not cynical by definition. The best of them remain hopeful. They simply understand that hope sometimes has to punch a clock.

This is why an author should resist treating new adult as YA with more explicit sex and a few beer cans in the recycling. Sexual content can be part of new adult fiction, naturally, because its characters are negotiating consent, intimacy, desire, and the emotional aftershocks with greater independence. Yet explicitness alone is not maturity. A scene earns its place when it changes the relationship, reveals character, or complicates the plot. Otherwise, it is just stage fog.

What Each Category Can Do Brilliantly

YA is exceptionally good at capturing the moment when a young person realizes that the script handed down by family, school, class, religion, or hometown may not be the only script available. It gives readers the speed and terror of becoming. Its emotional logic is immediate because so much is new: the first betrayal, the first serious artistic obsession, the first time a song feels like it was written specifically to explain your life.

New adult excels at the next, messier movement. Here comes the first apartment, first job, first sustained disappointment, first effort to build a life without an adult standing behind the curtain to make the calls. Its characters learn that independence is not a door you walk through once. It is a series of choices, many of them badly timed, some of them made in parking lots.

Neither category is inherently lighter or deeper. A fine YA novel can confront grief, addiction, racism, violence, mental health, and political upheaval with force. A weak new adult novel can mistake a tattooed love interest and a campus bar for insight. Labels describe an expected reading experience. They do not excuse thin writing.

Where Love Stories Fit

Romance is often central to both categories, but the pressure around it shifts. YA love frequently unfolds alongside the question of who the protagonist wants to become. The relationship may be the first place a character feels seen, or the first place they discover the danger of being seen by the wrong person.

In new adult fiction, love competes with practical adulthood. A couple may care for each other deeply and still be undone by money, geography, career hunger, trauma, unequal ambitions, or the undignified fact that one of them has nowhere to live. This can make the comic possibilities richer. Nothing tests devotion quite like sharing a bathroom with three strangers while trying to launch a music career.

For a comic musical novel such as Love Will Follow You, that territory is fertile. Mojo Rosen’s passage from local cover-band glory toward the small stages of America belongs to the new adult sensibility when his artistic hunger collides with romance, professional manipulation, and the reality that a promised moon rarely includes transportation, lodging, or even the grilled cheese sandwich.

Choosing the Right Shelf for Your Story

Writers deciding between YA and new adult should begin with the protagonist’s central problem. If the story turns on separation from family authority, school life, first identity, and the initial leap toward an adult future, YA is likely the honest fit. If it turns on self-support, adult intimacy, work, living arrangements, chosen family, and the aftermath of leaving home, new adult may serve it better.

There will be overlap. An eighteen-year-old can belong in YA, particularly if the emotional architecture remains rooted in adolescence. A twenty-three-year-old can carry a story with a YA-like rush of discovery. Publishing categories are useful maps, not sacred texts engraved on a record-store wall.

The real task is to honor the age of the character’s questions. Let the sixteen-year-old worry about being allowed onstage. Let the twenty-two-year-old worry about getting paid after the set. Give each one a voice sharp enough to tell us why the song matters, what it costs, and whether they are foolish enough to play it again tomorrow night.

 

CHAPTER ONE

I’ve always been a sprinter. That’s what I was good at. The short burst, one and done.

From home to first base. From our building to the corner. Around the corner to the grocery store. And back. I’ve always been a fast starter. Finishing was my problem. Take fourth grade, Field Day. With the lead going into the final forty of the hundred-yard dash, my legs suddenly got heavy, like I was running through a vat of mashed potatoes. It was all I could do to stagger across the finish line in last place without throwing up.

I decided not to race competitively after that. But, in the middle of my junior year in high school, when my mother told me she’d arranged for me to see my father for the first time since the divorce ten years before, I got all motivated to beef up my resume to impress him. So, I went out for the track team. On the day of the reunion, a week before our first meet of the season, my dad didn’t even make it halfway up the forty-seven steps to our apartment above Grossman’s stationery store in Brooklyn before he and my mom got into a fight. Boy those sounds took me back as I hid in my room. He wound up leaving without saying hello. Or goodbye.

At the track meet, it was Field Day all over again. Still reeling over my missed opportunity with my absent father, I nevertheless had the early lead before dropping back to prepare for my thrilling final kick. For an instant I felt my legs lifting off the ground, the ground disappearing, the competition disappearing. Until I started to consider the competition, my four teammates and five guys from Bay Ridge, their numbers flapping on their backs, their hair flapping in the breeze. All of them with their perfect families, bound for something, sprinting toward a solid future. Me? I felt like I was bound and gagged, crippled by fantasies of my disappearing old man, immobilized by fear of being trapped inside my mother’s life sprinting one step ahead of the latest landlord, one step behind her latest boyfriend. It was too late to make my move now. I had too much ground to make up. Too many obstacles to overcome. There just wasn’t time. I slowed to a walk, crossed the finish line in last place, hands on hips, breathless.

Coach Bern got right in my face. He was short and fat. I could smell the meatballs on his breath. I could see the hair on his bulging stomach above his sweatpants. “What were you doing out there, Meyer, daydreaming?”

He didn’t really want an answer, so I didn’t give him one. “We’re going to have to do some serious thinking about your place on this team,” he sputtered.

As Coach Bern was going on and on about my lack of commitment, conditioning, will, guts, desire, and whatever else you were supposed to have to compete, I had an unsettling realization. The Coach was right. I had no idea what it took to compete. How to compete was something you learned from your father. How to compete, how to fight, how to swear in eight languages. My father left when I was six. If he’d have shown up again, he’d have brought me to his office, taken me to a wrestling match, bought me an hour with a hooker for my sixteenth birthday. Instead I learned from my mother. How to quit. How to argue. How to feel sorry for myself in eight languages.

As I pushed back any further thoughts of my family, I could hear Coach Bern still yelling. “For the rest of the season I want you out here at 6:00 AM. I want you working your tail off. Working on your technique, your endurance. You got that? The Flying Wombats don’t have the luxury of carrying a loser.”

In the midst of this harangue, a delightful thought struck me. Since team members were excused from gym, and I was taking only four major subjects, if I quit the team, all I had to do was ditch study hall and skip lunch, and I could be out of the building by 11:20 for the rest of the semester. Probably the only kid in the history of the former girls’ House of Detention to escape so early in the day. I knew I could use the time more profitably on my own than in school anyway. My fantasy baseball league draft was coming up. I had a bunch of classic TV shows and movies to catch up on. I needed to organize my comic books and video games and DVDs by title, genre, condition. By the time the coach got around to notifying anyone I was no longer on the team, junior year would be over.

“What the hell are you smiling about, Meyer?”

“Who, me? Nothing.”

 I didn’t want to get all overjoyed or anything, but this might have been the high point of my entire high school career.

The second highest point of my high school career occurred a couple of weeks later, when I slipped into my seat in the back of my 4^th period English class ten minutes late. Unnoticed, or so I thought. “Well, well, well,” said Mrs. Duffy, “look who decided to show up today, hiding in the back as usual?” she barked. “It’s ‘The Invisible Man.’”

While this wasn’t the nickname I’d been searching for all my life, it certainly could have resulted from a meeting between Mrs. Duffy and Coach Bern. Or my casual relationship to school. But I had a feeling it was Duffy’s sneaky way of commenting on my Midterm essay, which concerned the most unforgettable character in my neighborhood. With an advanced sense of the absurd, I had written about the great escape artist Sol Houdini, as if he were our garbage collector. Mrs. Duffy had considered my fine work “just plain stupid” and awarded me three out of possible thirty points.  

(As far as hiding in the back, I could have reminded her–but hadn’t so far–that she’d assigned that seat to me herself.)

The climactic moment of the morning occurred when I found myself slowly rising from my desk. “This Invisible Man you’re always comparing to my personality,” I said in a seriously deep accent out of Darth Vader in Star Wars. “Would that be Claude Rains in the original 1933 edition of the movie? Or perhaps David McCallum in the 1975 television remake of the British TV series based on the film?”

 Not used to hearing my voice on any sort of regular basis, and in fact never have heard it sounding like Darth Vader in Star Wars, she had to run her finger down the seating chart to see who was calling out so melodiously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Meyer.”

An encouraging undercurrent of revolutionary giggles prodded me onward. “I sincerely hope it’s not Chevy Chase in the unfortunate Memoirs of an Invisible Man from 2000.”  

 “Are you quite through?” she said, wielding her ruler like a saber. Her nun’s reproving glare and witchy trigger fingers also quelled any potential class-wide uprising.    

“Yes, I am. I will now take my seat, the seat that you yourself assigned me,” I said, switching into a film noir voice of a frustrated, down at the heels detective, and compressing all my rage into the last four italicized words.

This release of anger was perhaps the second-best moment of my high school career, and worth every minute of the half hour I had to spend in the dean’s office.

I was planning to see Dean Phelps anyway, over his concerns about my grades, to say nothing of my disastrous SATs. “You’re so much better than this,” he said with a kindly smile.

“Chance Meyer,” I reminded him, thinking he had surely mistaken me for someone else.

He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair as he glanced at my pathetic stats. “With these numbers, you’re going to have to really knuckle down if you have any hopes of getting into college. And, frankly, acting out like you did in class today will not help your case.”

“I don’t think I’ll need college,” I replied, as if I’d given the matter more than five minutes of thought. “I’m planning to ship out.”

Phelps nodded. “That could be a good idea.”

“With the Norwegian Cruise Line as a singing busboy.”

If I’d had a mic in my hand, I’d have dropped it on his desk. Nevertheless, Phelps’ sense of humor was no better developed than Mrs. Duffy’s. He suggested I think about my actions and my attitude for several more hours during my stay in detention after school.  Presided over, of course, by Mrs. Duffy.

As much as I was delighted to say goodbye to my junior year, 72 average and all, I was equally thrilled to put sixteen in my rear-view mirror. But shortly before that cursed anniversary in the middle of August, I got a registered letter in the mail that would claimed it could change everything. It was from someplace called the Edelman Institute of Experimental Instruction in Overreach, Long Island (The E.I.E.I.O.) Apparently, I’d been recommended for their top secret experimental three-day program for underachievers by good old Mr. Phelps. Having been assured of my vast potential by Phelps, they were prepared to offer me an all-expense paid scholarship to take the course, which was held on the campus of Eastern Long Island State College the last week in August. The seminar sounded just about as exciting as watching a documentary on the lost tribes of Abyssinia. But I wasn’t about to pass up a free weekend at Eastern Long Island State, which had a reputation as the area’s number one party school. 

“If it’s too good to be true, then it probably isn’t,” my mother reminded me about the   scholarship. I preferred to keep the rumors of all-night parties to myself. 

Just before I was to leave, we got another registered letter. This one was from one of my ex-uncles, informing my mother that my father had been shot and killed by burglars at the vacation home he’d just finished building in Guadalajara.

“I’ll believe it when I see the death certificate,” Mom said, thinking it was just a clever ruse to get out of renegotiating the alimony and child support settlement she’d been grinding on for years.

Knowing the guy’s habit of disappearing, I found her reaction perfectly plausible.  But I also knew, for one thing, if he was really dead then it meant my dream of the better life he represented was now hinging on whatever was supposed to happen at the Edelman Institute.

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