As a teacher of writing, I am often asked why my students read such “morbid stuff”. Why do teenagers seek out stories about vampires and zombies and death and violence? Parents are particularly interested in this. Should they be making sure their kids are reading something more “wholesome”? Something about junior detectives solving local, non-violent crime perhaps? Something about the rescue of native animals and the hijinks they get up to?

In my experience teenagers read about death and violence because they are fascinated by death and violence and as a society, we shy away from talking about it. When we talk about death – we talk it about it in a historical sense. We discuss the second world war and the tragic waste of human life, or we teach about the death beliefs of the Egyptians, but we don’t tell them what it was like when their grandfather passed away in a hospice, or what it was like when the boy from our class at school was killed by a truck while motorcycle riding. We don’t tell them what we think might happen after we die, we don’t tell them how we feel about it. We treat death like a terrible contagion. Almost as though we are risking the lives of our young if we talk about it – and I mean really talk about it – with them. It’s one of the few things that every single one of us face, and we often ignore it.

The problem with ignoring something, or brushing teenagers off by telling them not to be morbid, is that they become even more fascinated. When I teach Ancient history class, they gravitate to the Egyptians – people completely unafraid to discuss death, people who suffered no lingering negativity from it – and their city of the dead and mummification. They want to talk about gladiators and fighting to the death. They read, in their free time mind you, about the 300 Spartans who were ready and willing to be slaughtered for no reason other than a show of defiance. Medieval torture and Inquisition death sentences are another tempting topic. In the past, death was such a part of everyday life it was simply and frankly discussed, and in my opinion, our students crave opportunities to have candid discussions about their mortality.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest 'Death Cafes have sprung up all across the world'. Photograph: Paul Grover/Rex Features

We aren’t the only country facing this youthful captivation with death. In the US there are university classes, oversubscribed ones mind you, on death. To get into Norma Bowe’s class Death in Perspective at Kean University, there is a three-year waiting period. In the class, students visit morgues to see dead bodies, write letters to dead relatives and create their own eulogies. Closer to home, Newcastle University runs a course entitled “The Sociology of Death and Dying” while the University of Queensland has “The Meaning of Death.” Death Cafes have sprung up all across the world where people can come together – have a piece of cake – and discuss the things they want to know about dying. There is one that meets in east Brisbane. But these are for older people and most often, medical students. Our teenagers are often left out of these discussions. The most we cover in our school curriculums is a historical study of funerary customs. We used to venerate and celebrate our dead, telling stories, and talking endlessly about the important and powerful people up the branches of our family tree. Now we are inclined to avoid the topic until we have no choice. Especially with our children.

One place where teenagers can get their fill of death is in young adult literature. Such as in in Harry Potter where we learn very early on that his parents were violently murdered and he has to deal with the ramifications of orphanhood throughout his entire teenage years. Or in The Hunger Games, where teenagers not only have to face their own mortality but kill to survive. The 2013 best-selling novel, The Fault in Our Stars, is an entire novel about two teenagers facing impending death from illness and from this there is no fairy tale reprieve. Divergant explores inherent teenage violence and desire to fight. The heroine loses both her parents and has to shoot her friend in the head. The books about the undead – those surviving death or dealing with an imperfect immortality through zombie viruses, vampirehood or cloning – are innumerable. Teenagers are finding their own way to talk about death.

Is this enough though? Is it enough to read fantastical and well wrought dealings with grief and horror? What do they miss when we don’t have casual conversations about our own ends? What happens to people in a culture scared of death?

Firstly, our risks are not calculated carefully. It is hard enough to calculate risks with the still forming cause-and-effect part of the teenage psyche, but if death is something fantastical and far off, those calculations lack data. In Australia there has been one Schoolies related death every year for the past decade, approximately 30 Australians die every year in Bali - the most common reason for the young being night club fights and scooter accidents – and the risk taking behaviour of the young in alcohol, drug and motor vehicle decision processes has meant that we lose more young adults to these three things than to anything else.

Secondly, there is no imperative for action. Teenagehood is already restrictive enough in its removal of power. Without the imperative of fragility and loss, there is no reason to get anything done. There is no reason why one can’t simply waft through one’s 20s and 30s travelling, living in the spare room and doing odd jobs. Without an engagement with death there is not sense that time is limited, so there is no imperative not to waste it.

And finally, we have no thought for legacy. If we don’t want to think about dying, we don’t think about what we are leaving behind. This was certainly not the way of the Egyptians, or the Ancient Chinese or the early Indigenous owners of this land. There was, in the past, a sense that we were preparing for something, making sure our house was in order, making sure we were leaving things a little better than we found them, making sure we were remembered and remembered well. This is not the say they were perfect cultures, I’m not a historic romantic, but there was a sense that they were trying, they wanted to arrive at death with something to say.

Discussions about death, the afterlife or lack thereof; of religious beliefs about death and of legacy and grief are not going to suddenly mean we have less deaths in our young. Accidents don’t seem to recognise philosophy. But there is a respect for death, an understanding of fragility and a love for the idea of legacy that could replace “morbid fascination.” There is a possibility that we could see death as something we could be “ready” for, unafraid of and respectful of.