So why was my range of reading, looking back, so narrow? Was I purposefully seeking the comfort of the familiar? Was I still learning? Did I not want to be challenged?
As an educator and avid reader today, eager to introduce young people to a broader range of literature, I find these questions both important and difficult. Over the past three years, I have taught readers who devoured every book in a series, like the Percy Jackson books. Some read the same stories repeatedly. Others followed consistent themes, with dragons and magic being especially popular.
I too loved magic and dragons. I read Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, and The Chronicles of Narnia, imagining myself in those worlds and dreaming of what I would do differently. I was convinced that if an owl had arrived at my window, I would have worked hard at Hogwarts to become the best wizard I could be. I also loved historical fiction, the Goosebumps series, and sports biographies.
I never read short stories or experimental narratives. Books with global perspectives or messages of social change were also missing from my bookshelf. Had I encountered such books, would I have embraced them? Might I have become more politicised, more empathetic to different lives? Or would I have turned away and retreated further into magical fiction?
In curating the reading lists for Sahab’s writing courses, we have tried to expand the scope. We include books I now wish I had been introduced to as a child. I recently read A Long Walk to Water by Linda Sue Park. It sparked a deep curiosity and led me to research South Sudan and its conflicts. I also read Skellig by David Almond, a book I would have loved if I had come across it earlier. Its first-person narrative style stood out to me, as it was something I rarely encountered in childhood.
My early attempts at storytelling reflected the books I had read. They were all in the third person, with me as the omniscient narrator. I rarely considered the audience, beyond wanting to impress them with my vocabulary or the occasional shock. My narrow reading had led to a narrow sense of written style.
But with a broader range of books, with diverse styles and voices, we begin to read differently. With prompting, we also open a book with questions. How does it make us feel? What is the author trying to say, and what are they choosing to leave unsaid? How does a style, character, or setting affect our response? We start to read differently and, in turn, learn to write differently.
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose was a book I picked up at the start of a course on Children’s Literature. It encourages slow, attentive reading. To think about word choice and the crafting of character. Until then, I would consume books in long sittings, rarely pausing for thought. I was, in essence, the reading equivalent of a mouth breather. But when I slowed down, when I imagined the author as someone making deliberate choices, I began to see books not only as entertainment but also as guides that could inform my own writing.
The question of guiding a child’s reading habits is therefore not only about what they read, but how they read. Of course, it varies. It is one thing to discuss authorial intent with a child who carries a hardback wherever they go, and quite another with a teenager re-reading Captain Underpants for the sixth time. But if we can begin those conversations—at home or in a writing course—we help foster a literary awareness. We support young readers and writers in exploring themselves and their world in a new and meaningful way.
And I think that is lovely.
Created with
