I confess ambivalence to the kind of books my daughter sometimes selects. She’s nine and a voracious reader. She isn’t afraid to tackle “serious” books, but she sometimes turns to the literary equivalent of junk food. In particular, there is a popular series for kids about clans of feral cats who go to war with one another. It is written under a pseudonym by a group of writers. Shakespeare they ain’t. Nonetheless, kids (including mine) cherish these books. But kids also cherish cotton candy and grape-flavored Kool-Aid and Justin Bieber. This is when I must remind myself of the countless hours I devoted to devouring Louis L’Amour novels during my teenage years. I still found time for Orwell, Steinbeck, and Dostoyevsky, but mostly because they were assigned by teachers. In my free time, it was back to Lonely on the Mountain, Mojave Crossing and the rest of the tales of the Sackett clan. Maybe I need to let the kid find her own literary way. Maybe she'll even find the stack of Louis L'Amour novels on the bookshelf in the basement that I continue to hoard.
RCM
