In the UK, doctors are providing a recommendation list of books dealing with various mental health issues. I approve of prescribing books for this reason.
I’m not sure whether my own books would qualify as far as having any therapeutic potential, but I’ve only finished one so far. My protagonists do all tend to have fairly realistic PTSD, but since I gave it to them, deliberately, for kicks, I’m not really entitled to pat myself on the back for my nurturing sensitivity.
I’m also a little new to this YA thing, and sometimes I accidentally mention things on this blog that I retroactively notice are a little bit adult, such as Outlander. And then I briefly feel like a terrible person, which is the main reason most of my reviews tend to be Disney/Pixar. I’m not shilling for them, honest. I’m just fairly certain they’ve anchored themselves far to one end of the YA – A divide and can therefore serve as a reference point, so that I don’t end up accidentally adulting up the place.
I never actually thought I would be a YA writer, in fact. I thought I’d probably write brilliant litfic and/or brooding violent fantasy epics and/or terrifying tales of horror, but once I sat down and actually wrote books, it became apparent that I’m some other kind of writer. I profess no special abilities in child guidance or development, and truthfully I’m kind of a crappy role model. Mainly because I spent my formative years wallowing in cheesy pop culture instead of the kind that accumulates college credits – which made me fall in love with cheesy pop culture and aspire to create some of my own.
Some books are like medication and therapy, while others are more like delicious crispy greasy grilled cheese sandwiches, or brief relaxing vacations.