I took French in high school, a “useless language” for a Texan girl. Anyone could see that I should have taken Spanish, right? I mean, here we are on the border with Mexico, etc. (I spent summers as a child playing on the streets of San Miguel d’Allende while my grandfather took art classes. I actually remember speaking Spanish then… but it faded. Sigh.) No matter what anyone said, I insisted on signing up for French classes. Why? Simple: I loved the sound of the language. (Not a bad thing for a writer to admit, hey?) I ended up taking a number of placement tests for college, and earning enough hours of credit in French and other subjects to begin college with over 30 hours under my belt — a college Sophomore at 17. I felt very clever.

But not clever at all when I found myself sitting in that first French class, fifth semester college French actually, facing a very frightening, native French professor who had the expectation that I could speak, write, and even read much more fluently than I actually could. I panicked, mentally running through every French curse I knew. Then I hit the books. I rose to the occasion, but it was like learning to swim in the ocean. Scary.

Writing children’s fiction feels that way for me sometimes, and part of this is due to the fact that I haven’t read quite enough in the genre for my comfort. Sure, I got a Master’s in Fiction Writing — but it was very much literary fiction, so that’s what I read. No regrets there! I fell in love with Dante, Cervantes, Homer, Annie Dillard, and Virginia Woolf. Of course, I also earned the real-world equivalent of a PhD in Genre Fiction. I cannot count the number of books I’ve read with heaving bosoms, spaceships, or studly wizards on their covers. I still think my husband married me because he found out on our first date that I, too, had adored the Hitchhiker’s Guide series… and read them all. (Um, multiple times. Gotta love those spaceships.)

But now I find myself writing Middle Grade fiction — and so I have immersed myself in that world. I love it. This week, I’m reading: Barbara O’Connor’s How to Steal a Dog, and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo (finished her lovely Magician’s Elephant last week, having flashbacks to Gabriel Garcia Marquez on every other page). I can’t help but think that every book I read makes me a stronger writer. In fact, I can feel it, see it happening in my own work.

So, writer friends, is it necessary to read in your genre? Maybe not. Maybe you can get by with reading adult fiction while writing YA or picture books. But I want to swim, not just dog paddle. I’m going to educate myself.

Now, off to powder my hair and bake lovely things for my first Literary Salon meeting today chez moi. I’m tempted to wear silk pajamas and serve the guests their repast in my opulent bedroom (see? I did pay attention in those French lit classes!), but my friends might have taken those practical Spanish courses instead of French, and they wouldn’t understand the long and illustrious literary tradition I would be mocking, I mean, emulating.

Oh, yes. I did end up taking Spanish courses, too. Nothing wrong with being a little bit practical, and knowing how to talk to your neighbors.

Happy writing today!