I hope this admission here won't cost me my membership to the kid-lit blogosphere community but yesterday while I perused a bookstore, I came to the realization that...that...I...uh...prefer reading adult literature — ssssh!
I love children's literature, of course — reading it, writing and illustrating it, living it. But for the past few years, I've focused my reading on children's and YA books and yesterday while looking at adult titles, I suddenly missed reading stories through point of view of adult characters.
Currently, I'm reading Frindel, where the main character, Nick Allen, is a fifth grader. Before that, I read Junie B. Jones, where the main character is a first grader. Before that, The Year of the Dog, where Pacy, a young Taiwanese-American girl — I don't remember her age — is in about third-grade.
I loved all three of these books, all are great examples of children's literature. But I'm 43-years-old, and it's been at least 30 years since my biggest problem in life was getting along with my fifth-grade teacher.
My to-read pile of children's books is waist deep. At the top are two books sent to me by my friend Mr. V.: The First Part Last, by Angela Johnson, and Tyrell, by Coe Booth, and I can't wait to jump right in. But after that, I plan to squeeze in some adult reading, 'cause I'm gonna go nuts if I gotta read one more anthropomorphic animal story.
Hope that makes sense.