TEENAGE:GROWING UP IS rarely an easy process; but growing up gay, at least to judge by its fictional representation in the teenage novel, is even more of a challenge, writes Robert Dunbar.
In the time since the publication, in 1969, of John Donovan's I'll Get There, It Better Be Worth the Trip, generally regarded as the first young adult novel to have a gay central character, there has been a steady increase in the quantity of such material.
The extent to which the quality has grown is, however, less certain, as many of these novels - while often written with the best of intentions - continue to present a view of adolescent homosexuality as an "issue" or a "problem", frequently encased in narratives which are negative and depressing and invariably weakened by stereotyped characters and situations.
It is to the credit of Perry Moore's Hero (Corgi, £5.99 ) that it attempts, though not with total success, to avoid at least some of these strictures. In essence a coming-out novel, its American teenage hero, 17-year-old Thom Creed, is living with two secrets: his gayness and, in a parallel world, the "superpower" he is able to exercise through his membership of "the world's premier superhero group", an organisation whose members clearly descend from the great American comic book tradition.
The conflict which both of these secrets cause in the boy's relationship with a homophobic and ex-superhero father provides the novel's central theme and their juxtaposition is skilfully developed. But many of the numerous characters are merely two-dimensional and many of Thom's experiences on the road to self- and societal acceptance are very dark indeed.
While there is a gay dimension also to Anthony McGowan's The Knife That Killed Me (Definitions, £5.99), the principal focus here is on the topical matter of adolescent knife crime.
Set in a frighteningly violent British secondary school, the novel brilliantly catches the flavour of contemporary classroom life, as we follow the destiny of its hero, Paul, tragically caught between the various demands his fellow pupils make on him.
The knife itself, an object of totemic significance, is accorded a dual role; dominating both the title and the unwinding of the plot it simultaneously empowers and disempowers.
This is vivid, powerful writing, going well beyond conventional portrayals of young male bullying and humiliation. Not, perhaps, since Golding's Lord of the Flies has there been such a searing reminder of what the strong schoolboy is capable of inflicting on the weak.
The harshness of McGowan's world finds its match in Patricia McCormick's Sold (Walker, £5.99) though the specific circumstances could hardly be more different. Written as what is in effect a first-person prose poem, this is the hugely affecting story of Lakshmi, a 13-year-old Nepalese girl, who is coerced into leaving her native village in order to take up residence as a prostitute in the ironically named "Happiness House", an Indian brothel.
The novel's most poignant moments are those where Lakshmi, desperately coming to live with her new conditions and companions, finds herself recalling the home and the mother she has left behind: the gentleness of her memories tellingly undercuts the appalling exploitation she now suffers. The novel's resolution is not, perhaps, totally satisfactory - but its overall impact is not diminished.
The sense of loss and pain which characterises so much of McCormick's novel lies also at the heart of Sonya Hartnett's The Ghost's Child (Walker, £6.99 ) but then, as we are reminded towards its conclusion, loss can have "its own quality and promise".
A careful, sensitive reading of this novel should lead to a similar viewpoint, as we witness a 75-year-old woman recounting to a 12-year-old boy the story of her life and, in particular, of how that life had known love, loss and, ultimately, understanding of the innate duality of life itself, its "whiplash tail of sadness" and its "warm facet of joy". With more than a nod to the thematic and stylistic conventions of fairytale, Hartnett has composed an elegiac and lyrical fiction.
The mysteries of love are also probed in Tabitha Suzuma's A Voice in the Distance (Definitions, £5.99), the emphasis being once again on its delight and its despair. Flynn, its hero, combines being a brilliant classical pianist with being a sufferer from manic depression, an illness which is finally to drive him towards self-destruction; his girlfriend, Jennah, must cope.
Psychosis, breakdowns, a spell in a psychiatric hospital are all part of the young man's existence but so also is the promise of a glittering musical career. Some sacrifices have to be made. With events narrated alternately, and equally convincingly, by Flynn and Jennah, Suzuma's novel effectively demonstrates that real love, sometimes, will involve setting the loved one free.
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Robert Dunbar is a commentator on children's books and reading