My post above was intended as a gentle re-direct.

Also, what Kristin and Cindy said.

I agree--I think I liked better books, but then I became a writer. As I said, I didn't know why I hung onto "Roller Skates" and not "Marla's Big Date" but I did. I don't think kids only like great books, but kids, especially younger kids, do like the classics. "Goodnight Moon" still pleases tinys, and so does "Make way for Ducklings." The comfort food books kids glom onto and read over and over might not stay with kids the way better books do. I was obsessive about some show called "Circus Boy" (starring a young Mickey Dolenz!) when I was a kid and watched it every day. Yet I don't remember a scene of it. I DO remember, in detail, seeing a local production of "MY Fair Lady" when I the same age, though. Not the songs, which I could have gotten from the album, the actual staging of the the production we saw.

ETA-- and I posted this before I saw Kristin's post. Happy to get off my high horse and stop now!

And Robin brings it back full circle - Kristin, this does come back to the writing. I want to see if, and if yes, how, Amy, or Susan, will write an adult book with the influence of small children in the house. And honestly, my question wasn't about crit - it was about how a child processes what they read, or has read to them. That does link up very firmly in my head as a writer. Here's my example. Nutty said

When I was a kid, I "read" Tintin books in French, with zero reading comprehension. It was a totally different story from the translated versions I found when I was older.

I bounced when I read that, because the first book I remember seeing on my own was Le Petit Prince. I couldn't read English properly yet, much less French - I was probably about three or four - but I remember the little boy standing on the edge of the planet, with all the universe spread out behind him. I asked my sister - speaks French like a native and always has - to read it to me, and she did (I just called her at work, and she remembers this vidivly). And she remembers that I was enthralled by the language, even though I didn't understand more than maybe one word in ten.

The first full novel I ever wrote - piece of pretentious crapola, pondering the Big Questions with all the annoying self-importance a 15-year-old could summon up - was in Italian.

I don't think that was coincidental.

(edited because I can't type for beans this morning)

I want to see if, and if yes, how, Amy, or Susan, will write an adult book with the influence of small children in the house.

Deb, I'm thinking you don't mean this:

"And most days lately I've been tempted to do nothing more than whine about how hard it is to write a single coherent sentence with a 14-month-old determined to pull every CD I own out of the cabinet. And then take them all out of their cases and strew them around the room. And then step on them. And drool on them."

(which I posted in my writing blog this morning) but can you elaborate? Because I think I know what you mean, but I'm not sure.

Oh, dear. No, not quite that, Amy.

By example: my friend Tad write large (as in, shaming War & Peace large) epic fantasy novels. Since becoming the father of two small children, he's been considering - haven't spoken to him in forever and he may well already have done this - about doing some writing for small children.

Tad's writing is very dense, very, I don't know, layered. And I don't know of any books for small children about Twitchy the Friendly Raccoon, or whatever, that has 97 characters and fourteen subplots in it.

Tad is a particular kind of writer, and he doesn't write for little kids. But, if he began to, would his choice of language be impacted by what his own two demons understood, or could absorb? And if the answer to that is yes, would he find it even possible to completely alter his own internal creative synapses and craft an entirely different kind of thing?

Not sure that's clear, still. I know what I'm trying to figure out, from the writer's perspective, but I don't seem to be articulate it. Damn it.

Okay, I get it now. Very much so, as a matter of fact. And I want to address it, because I think it's fascinating, but I have to put the little demon spawn little angel down for her nap. Back later.

The first story I ever wrote, in third grade, was a story of children who stumbled into a world of talking horses, where they helped the rightful horse king defeat an evil usurper. Was I reading the Chronicles of Narnia then? Why yes, I was.

I didn't write much else until high school, when I started trying to write the kind of books I'd read in middle school--your standard high school romances. "Sweet Dreams," I think the books were called. My versions were always set in marching band, and all my heroines were Mary Sues.

What I actually read in high school were Regency trads (largely at first because unlike other romances they didn't have bodice-ripper covers, and therefore I could read them without having to hide them or endure flak from my mother, but then I got hooked on the era), assorted historical fiction, and the Sunfire historical romances for teenagers. I loved those books so much, because they were about girls my age, but with higher stakes--surviving the Oregon Trail or the aftermath of the Civil War or the Titanic was more interesting than finding a date for the prom, and the heroines ended the books engaged, so again, higher stakes than in the non-historical teen romances.

The last thing I wrote before college was a dark, disturbing story about a teenaged girl who has an affair with her best friend's divorced father. Looking back, it was how I was working through and talking myself out of a schoolgirl crush on an older man, but it still kinda sends a chill down my spine to think that my 17-year-old self, the same girl who'd been writing all those happy bland little marching band romances, wrote that thing.

Not that I actually finished any of those stories, except the first one with the talking horses.

In elementary school, we had lot of assignment where we were reading a book and had to either write another chapter to the book or write a diary entry as if we were one of the main characters or write a newspaper article about something that had happened in the book or something like that. I distinctly remember in fifth grade the first time when, on one of the "write another chapter" assignments, it occured to me to try to mimic the style of the original book. (I didn't use the phrase "mimic the style," of course; I think I just thought of it as trying to write it like the original author did.)

The first "book" I remember writing was in first grade or so. It was about a princess who wasn't allowed to go outside or have any friends, because it was too dangerous for a princess outside the palace grounds, and so she was lonely. Nothing really happened except her wandering around the palace, lonely. I remember my sister telling me that a prince should come rescue her, and I said that, if there wasn't any safe way for the princess to get out, then there certainly wouldn't be any way for a prince to get it.

I remember that, usually, when I was reading something, I'd practically devour the book -- race through it, wanting to find out what happened next. The first time I read The Secret Garden was the first time I didn't do that. I went back and reread parts before going on -- it usually wasn't plotty parts, but the descriptions of the house and the gardens. I think I filled an entire sketchpad with pictures of those places.

One small anecdote about The Disastrous Dino War:

Up until the night before the deadline, the title was The Disasterous Dino War. I think it was the night before the deadline when I discovered I'd misspelled it. I had to redo the entire cover and title page and the pages with chapter headings and it was pretty traumatic. I think that must have been the root of my obsession with spelling things correctly and copy-editing on sight.

I remember that, usually, when I was reading something, I'd practically devour the book -- race through it, wanting to find out what happened next. The first time I read The Secret Garden was the first time I didn't do that. I went back and reread parts before going on -- it usually wasn't plotty parts, but the descriptions of the house and the gardens. I think I filled an entire sketchpad with pictures of those places.

One of only a handful of childrens' books I actually picked up and read as a child, and I did precisely what you did: remember Dickon's breaking open the twig from the not-quite-dead tree, and showing her the green inside? I went back and read that about thirty times.

In reading the takes the writers in this thread have posted up about this so far - P-C's dino thing (which made me happy), and Susan's talking horse, and Hil's "can't go out" story - I'm absorbing an impression that creative people tell themselves the "immediate or daily impact on their lives" stories as kids, and then those transmute into our later stories. Secret Garden was one of those books for me - the ghostly hidden touches of Colin, crying unseen somewhere in the house, had a lot of resonance with a kid who was in and out of a hospital bed with extreme illnesses, and when at home at her aunt and uncle's ranch in Canada, had the basement room. I wasn't a weeper, but had I been, no one would have heard me.

I wonder what else creeps in, for writers? Because for me, certainly those touches - the terrifying encounter with the god Pan in Wind in the Willows, the dislocation and making the world her own and deep visceral descriptions in The Secret Garden, the incredible power implied to me by the little boy, dancing on the rim of the world, fearless and not even comprehending that he should be scared - had an effect on how and what I write.