Kia ora koutou, had a conversation recently about how little esteem is given to writers who write for children by the literary and university communities. Made me think how important writers who wrote for children were (and are) in my life. When I was eight or nine I read a book and discovered that instead of stopping after a few pages it went on and on. I was at first incredulous then totally enraptured. I would have read all night if I’d been allowed. That book was Emily of New Moon by LM Montgomery, bless her name. She would probably have been sneered at by the literary afficionados of the day but that book set me on the reading train and I’ve never got off.
After Emily I read everything I found on the Children’s section of the local library shelves (all the Anne books of course, Seven Little Australians, Angela Brazil among 100s of others, Dickens (Nicholas Nickleby so scary I never read it again), Austen, The Brontes, The Last of the Mohicans) then started on the adult section supervised by the librarian who understood my voracious appetite for books but nevertheless confiscated books like My Gypsy Lover for some reason. I still re-read The Secret Garden and every now and again Emily of New Moon. These writers understood what story meant and while their colleagues who wrote for adults might have been lauded by the literary-ites of the time their books have gone while these have lived and are still being read and not only by children. Part of my reading has always included fiction aimed at younger readers. How could it not be? High quality writing and writers who understand story? No contest.
