One of the main concepts, if not the main concept, I try to get across to my literature students is that the stories we read do not exist outside of our experiences; they ARE our experiences. Literature, I say all the time, is a mirror. They nod and kind of get it. After a few weeks, they give me the "so you say ALL the time" face. I am always pointing out similarities between the stories and their lives. It's not an easy concept to internalize. Sometimes it's even hard for the teacher.
Mostly, I write YA. YA has a lot of repeated plots: kids morphing into vampires, boy meets girl and more recently some boy meets boy, kid from the wrong side of the tracks finds acceptance and so on. YA authors do an awful lot of creative plot retreading.

So when Emma asked to have a girl (I'll call her Sara) over yesterday, I immediately thought of the wrong side of the tracks plot. I told her no almost before she was done asking. This kid's parents...
Emma looked at me for a long minute. "So she's not her dad," Emma reminded me, "and it's not fair that's your reason."
"I've heard things," I reminded her, "the house..."
"Wow, Mom. I didn't think you would be like everyone else. But I guess you are."
She walked away. Slowly. Disappointed.

I stood in the kitchen trying to think what to do. I knew she was right. I know when I read those YA books where the kid is being judged by the town or the school because of the parents, I always cheer on the kid. It's the hook that keeps me reading. Those people are being so unfair. I would never be like that. Right?
But this kid...even I had heard about the dad, the arrests, the problems. Sorry. Just no. My job is to keep Emma safe.
And then - I remembered the look she gave me when she said I was like everyone else. What would happen if Sara came over? I wouldn't leave them alone in the house; they wouldn't be allowed to go anywhere without me. What would happen if I said yes? She already talked to Emma in school and Emma had survived. So I said  a reluctant yes.

Sara came over. I was imagining:
But she was really just a regular 12 year old kid. Emma made them dinner and asked that I not help. Their menu? Boxed macaroni and cheese, brownies and popcorn. They watched a scary movie. They put make up on. They straightened their hair. All normal. The mom picked Sara up.
"See, Mom?" she reminded me, "nothing happened."
But it did. I realized that being on the other side of literature, when the plot enters your life instead of you entering the plot, is an entirely new lesson and maybe one Emma needed to teach me.