I have a coworker who keeps insulting my reading and writing tastes, as best as I can tell without any awareness that she's doing so. (She's a nice person in many ways, but the Tact Fairy was NOT present at her christening.) She knew I'd written and unsuccessfully attempted to market a romance, which seemed to flabbergast her--IIRC, she even said something along the lines of being surprised that such an obviously intelligent person would choose to write trashy books. (!)

Anyway, today she was asking what I was writing now and why I'd changed genres. I described what I was working on now--alternate history, but basically historical adventure--and that the appeal for me, as a reader and writer, was the epic sweep of the plot and the idea that one person's actions could have a meaningful impact upon the world. She then said, "But isn't that really a teen fantasy--I mean what YA books are all about? Is there really an adult market for that sort of thing?" I happened to have Naomi Novik's latest with me, and I said something like, "Well, she writes something along the same lines, and she's doing pretty well for herself." Cow-orker replied, "But do adults read these things? I mean, besides you?"

(Just to clear up any possible confusion, I love good YA and would happily write it if I had a suitable idea--I only resent it being suggested that my tastes in fiction are a mark of emotional immaturity, and that real grown-ups don't enjoy adventure stories or books with dragons on the covers.)

She looked at the book and decided it maybe looked like a good idea, and then said, "How come she's published and you're not?" I sputtered something about her having finished the first book in her series at least a couple of years ago, while I only started my WIP at the beginning of the summer. I mean, I waffle between thinking I'm brilliant and I suck, sometimes within the course of an hour or two, so I don't even pretend to know how my writing compares to Novik's. But I do know I can't sell what I haven't written!

Believe it or not, from my other interactions with this person, I'm sure she likes me and means well. But I dread when she corners me to ask about my book.

That woman needs a tact transplant.

"I Don't know...if I knew that, would I be talking to you?" Or for the Ron White fans: "I can *get* published. You can't fix stupid."

Cow-orker replied, "But do adults read these things? I mean, besides you?"

If she mentions it again, you can tell her that you should certainly hope so, as she's an award-winning author whose series has been optioned by Peter Jackson.

"But do adults read these things? I mean, besides you?"

You could also reply "Does the name J.K. Rowling mean anything to you?"

That's tactless on an epic scale.

Also baffling.

the appeal for me, as a reader and writer, was the epic sweep of the plot and the idea that one person's actions could have a meaningful impact upon the world. She then said, "But isn't that really a teen fantasy--I mean what YA books are all about? Is there really an adult market for that sort of thing?"

Um, wha? Toss out epic sweep of plot, you eliminate fiction by everyone from Homer to Dickens to Larry McMurtry. Not to mention that tossing one person's meaningful impact also shitcans the biographies of a hell of a lot of actual human beings who were apparently not so much heroic as misguided by adolescent fantasy. So what does she consider a piece of worthwhile adult reading?

There once was a boy. He had some rough times as an adolescent, but settled down into a pleasant but largely unremarkable adulthood. He held down a moderately challenging but not dangerous job pushing papers for a local widget firm until he died of a myocardial infarction at 56. His family was pretty sad but ultimately it didn't matter much.

There once was a boy. He had some rough times as an adolescent, but settled down into a pleasant but largely unremarkable adulthood. He held down a moderately challenging but not dangerous job pushing papers for a local widget firm until he died of a myocardial infarction at 56. His family was pretty sad but ultimately it didn't matter much.

That is an Anne Tyler novel.

JZ, you forgot the long passages where he sits at the kitchen table looking regretfully into the distance while his coffee slowly gets cold. Note: be sure to put them in before the myocardial infarction, or you've got a ghost story and therefore genre cooties.

That is an Anne Tyler novel.

You take that back, you! t Anne Tyler partisan

you forgot the long passages where he sits at the kitchen table looking regretfully into the distance while his coffee slowly gets cold

Pfft. The protagonist of my worthwhile adult fiction would never sit around indulging in a wet and impractical emotion like regret. He may occasionally think back on the old days and say to himself, "My, that was a time, wasn't it?" as he takes his coffee cup out of the microwave, but he doesn't let it go beyond that. He's not living in a piece of trashy fiction, after all.