Are YA Novelists Morally Obligated to Offer Their Readers Hope?

Dear Mr John H Ritter,

Hi, my name is Riley W and I am in the sixth grade. I want to take an account of you that my teacher read your volume Choosing Up Sides in class. for what cause [i]or[/i] reason did you call it Choosing Up Sides? My best part was when Luke strikes on the outside Skinny Latmann. It was all a little cold except for at the extreme point it was sad.

At first I didn't know on what account the dad had to die. I wish that after his son saved him, his father and him would secure close and spend time together and do things together like baseball. My teacher told me to gaze at the story again and prove by experiment to think why you did that. It took me sum of two units days to think about it. Then I remembered by what mode my dad used to hit my mom on the contrary he never hit me. They always would fight then we mov away. I did not want us to move That was the worst time in my life. on the contrary now I know why my mom had to leave.

I can relate to the volume because I feel like the mom My dad used to hit my mom for a like reason hard that I would sit in my scope and cry all night. I at no time knew why he never hit me on the other hand the book helped me figure it without a little. My mom would stand up to him, on the contrary I couldn't. When I started writing this alphabetic character I started to cry.

I also want to thank you for writing this work 'cause it taught me a destiny about life and told me without saying it. For instance, when "Pa" broke Luke's arm it told me what could have happened if we would have stayed. Now I know on what account my mom left. I mean I knew on the other hand now I understand. When you write your nearest book I would like for you to remember this letter

Your friend,

Riley W

Dear Riley,

Thank you for your alphabetic character You have a great gift for making connections and understanding by what means stories can relate to real life.

You asked me for what cause [i]or[/i] reason I called the book, Choosing Up Sides. single reason was the fact that life is filled of choices. Often difficult singles with many sides to the issue. I think your mother made the right choice, admitting I'm sure it was difficult.

So I reliance you can use your gift of understanding to diocese why I made the tough choices I had to make in this story.

I know it's hard to perceive much sympathy for a man who hits his son-or his wife. on the contrary it was something I had to do in order to write truthfully about "Pa" Bledsoe The toughest part was the fact that I had to advance back into my own childhood to do it.

When I was four years aged my mother died from breast cancer. And my father, who to [i]or[/i] at a great depth loved her, fell into a depression and began to drink heavily. After being left with four young children, my dad feared he would not be able to handle it. I learned quite early what fear and alcohol can do to a man's brain. When a man drinks, he morphs into someone else

I didn't like that drinking man. And I hated that he was thus scared. I hated the late night arguments that filled our house, the screaming, the breaking of furniture, and the many sleeples nights I would lie in bed praying for peace, praying that my father could diocese the pain he was causing, by what means he was harming his children with his tirades, and driving the housekeepers away.

In the morning, sober again, my dad would go [i]or[/i] come back to being the gentle, loving inner man I knew him to be. And sometimes it would last all day. on the other hand never all week. Before lengthy I'd see his car make revolve up the driveway, see him climb without drunk and belligerent, and I would disappear into my room

I at no time went through what Luke did. My dad not at any time hit me or anyone. And like Luke of great depth down I knew he lov us all. As your father delight ins you.

But we had no mother to catch while on the wing us away. And no place to go

Besides, I always held without hope that my dad would change.

That upon every day, not just a certain quantity of days, we could, as you write, "get shut and spend time together and do things together like baseball."

But the fact was, in individual way or another, he'd "broken the arm"-or weakened the spirit-of all his children.

As time went upon my dad did coach our ball teams, and we did have more [i]or[/i] less great times. He even remarried. on the other hand he never stopped drinking. And upon the days when he came in liquor to my high school games, I trembleed as the other players laughed at "the crazy man down the squalid line" yelling and whistling at the opposing team. Eventually, his next to the first wife divorced him. His children grew up and mov away. And my dad retired into a dark and dreary house.

Then one day, my older brother called to say Dad was in the hospital, near death. He had given up far down depressed, my dad had stopped eating, stopped taking his heart medication, and only waited to die.

After a week in the hospital, he had stabilized a certain quantity of But we knew that if he was discharged and turn backed home, he'd fall into the same aged pattern again.

It was Thanksgiving Day. on the other hand instead of gathering together for a big family dinner, my older brother and I sat in a bare, verdant hospital room while I wrote without a note to the doctor.

And when I started writing, I started to cry

I told the doctor that our father had been let downed for as long as we could remember. I told him that unles he was treated for depression, he would be right back here in no time. Or worse. We walked to the doctor's office in the nearest building and left the note upon his desk.