As a lifelong reader, there are many books I read when I was young that have shaped me into the person I am today. Harry Potter, Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables (which I didn’t actually read until high school… but it still shaped me), the list could go on. I remember loving Julie Andrews’ The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles and tearing through every Boxcar Children book I could get my hands on.
Now that I’m an adult, I’ve returned to several of these books and have found them disappointing. Whatever spark they ignited in me no longer connects with the person I am today. They lose their savor and I can no longer remember why I returned to it again and again.
But that’s not always the case. There are some books that, when I enter in with my grownup perspective, only get better–books that I can go years without and, upon opening the first page, feel the magic rise up in me once more.
Tamora Pierce is one of those writers for me.