My daughter loves books. She’s six (not quite six and a half), and she reads voraciously. It’s a great thing. She wakes up in the morning and grabs a book to read and she reads a half hour or so before going to sleep at night. She reads comic books (Duck Tales, Baby Blues, and others), poetry (Shel Silverstein is in demand), or novels (I think she has read about twenty of the Nancy Drew novels and four or five of the Little House series as well as some other things like the old Ginny Gordon mystery series and Trixie Belden). She enjoyed the Chronicles of Narnia and the Chronicles of Prydain.
The greatest part is that now she is finding nuggets of goodness in the things she reads that she feels compelled to share with others. I was working from home yesterday and she came in with the Shel Silverstein Anthology Every Thing On It (published posthumously). She had found a poem I had never read (“Food”) and wanted to read it to me. The poem was great and pertinent to everything today, but the better part was hearing our daughter reading it.
My main concern is keeping her appetite for reading material satisfied in a healthy way. There is a lot of fluff out there today and the noise makes it hard to find decent (and wholesome) works. My wife and daughter go to the library every other week or so and return with a few dozen books, but many of them have weak (or no) themes and less than admirable characters or plots. That’s one of the main reasons I started writing – I want to make sure that there is good, wholesome, entertaining, thought-provoking literature out there for kids to read. I don’t care if nobody buys my books or if everybody buys them. I am writing the stories so that folks have another option. I look forward to the day when my kids introduce my grandchildren to my books as a way to entertain them. (does that reek of arrogance on my part? If so, please refer back to my post on arrogance)