OK, I am here to speak as a reader. Not as a parent. Not as a "person interested in children's literature." But as a reader—you know, the person who misses her stop on the subway. The one who doesn't want to come down to dinner because she is reading her book. The one who is waiting, patiently or not, through all the crap of the day to get back to her book.
I have actually read a whole bunch of good books lately. But there was only one that turned me into that reader—the one who only wanted to read. It was this:
It just—it moved me. In part this might be because it's a "historical" novel, by which I mean it's set in the eighties, and… maybe I am a sucker for my own history? Maybe I am tired and weak? Maybe maybe maybe… it doesn't matter, because the truth is, it's just a really good book. It's got that torn-out-of-someone's-heart feeling through and through, and I will be blogger enough to tell you that it all ended with my sitting on the couch crying.
Warnings: it is romantic. And sexy. As Chestnut recently explained to me, "I don't like that. It's gross. Come on, I'm a kid!"
Also, it is truthful about certain harsh realities, and lots of intense things come up, including domestic violence, child abuse, and abandonment.
But oh my, it's really very good. And if you are in need of balm for the soul in the form of reading something really good that you don't want to stop reading and makes you cry, you should maybe get this book, hole up somewhere, and fly.