A rare moment...
Had conversation with Boss-type person today, which resulted in a raise (yay, raise!), but also involved discussing levels of appropriateness when selling books to kids/teens/parents/what have you. (I swear I warned the parent that the book involved drugs and some minor sex...)
And, even though I'm always careful to give a parent a synopsis of the book if I've read it and think there might be some bits that they might not approve of, I have to confess that I'm a bit baffled by the concept.
I am of the opinion that rabid book-loving children of all ages should be encouraged. I like rabid book-loving children, which, in itself, says a lot. I feel quite justified in saying that there are not enough of them in the world. What can I say? I relate to them, in ways that I don't relate to ordinary children.
This may or may not translate into me selling them entirely inappropriate books whilst their parents have their backs turned. I confess to nothing.
Because, you see, when I was but a rabid book-loving child, my parents were slightly baffled by me (I actually disliked television) but knew better than to forbid me from reading things. Kids are smart. If you tell them that they can't read something, they will go to the library and read it aloud in the children's corner, thereby scarring not only themselves but any other book-loving tots they may find there. My parents mostly understood this, so we were allowed free run of the library and bookshops; they chose not to look at our bookshelves too closely, lest they see things of which they wouldn't approve.
Thus, by the time I was twelve, I had read a number of things that still have the ability to make my parents blush (although it's pathetically easy to embarrass my father, so this isn't much of an achievement). The one that springs most readily to mind is The Mists of Avalon, but I probably only remember it because of the threesome-it was my first threesome. I still look upon it fondly.
I don't think that I've been corrupted as a result (although I have relatives who would probably object quite firmly to that statement). It just means that I grew up viewing sex as something that is natural, healthy, and that people write about in books quite a lot. I certainly haven't been traumatised.
Well, okay, there was one time that a book traumatised me... When I was seventeen, my mother decided to give me her copy of The Joy of Sex, which led me to draw two conclusions:
a) I am not the result of in-vitro fertilisation, as I had always secretly hoped.
b) She has memorised the entire book, and therefore doesn't need it anymore.
But I don't blame the book for that, poor thing. It can't help that it was a gift, or that it isn't the petri dish proving my conception sans sexual intercourse. If she had only shattered my in-vitro dreams when I was still young enough to not be bothered by the concept, there would not be years and years of therapy looming in front of me.
Or, at least, my future therapy would be unrelated to that moment.
Moral of the story? If your children are bookish fiends, let them read and be open enough with them that you will not scar them later in life. It can only help them.
They'll work it out eventually, whether you tell them or not.
ETA: As it is now officially March 18, it is the four-year anniversary of Boyfriend and I. Meep.
Simultaneously sweet and scary. More on this later, because I have a toasty bed awaiting my presence.
And, even though I'm always careful to give a parent a synopsis of the book if I've read it and think there might be some bits that they might not approve of, I have to confess that I'm a bit baffled by the concept.
I am of the opinion that rabid book-loving children of all ages should be encouraged. I like rabid book-loving children, which, in itself, says a lot. I feel quite justified in saying that there are not enough of them in the world. What can I say? I relate to them, in ways that I don't relate to ordinary children.
This may or may not translate into me selling them entirely inappropriate books whilst their parents have their backs turned. I confess to nothing.
Because, you see, when I was but a rabid book-loving child, my parents were slightly baffled by me (I actually disliked television) but knew better than to forbid me from reading things. Kids are smart. If you tell them that they can't read something, they will go to the library and read it aloud in the children's corner, thereby scarring not only themselves but any other book-loving tots they may find there. My parents mostly understood this, so we were allowed free run of the library and bookshops; they chose not to look at our bookshelves too closely, lest they see things of which they wouldn't approve.
Thus, by the time I was twelve, I had read a number of things that still have the ability to make my parents blush (although it's pathetically easy to embarrass my father, so this isn't much of an achievement). The one that springs most readily to mind is The Mists of Avalon, but I probably only remember it because of the threesome-it was my first threesome. I still look upon it fondly.
I don't think that I've been corrupted as a result (although I have relatives who would probably object quite firmly to that statement). It just means that I grew up viewing sex as something that is natural, healthy, and that people write about in books quite a lot. I certainly haven't been traumatised.
Well, okay, there was one time that a book traumatised me... When I was seventeen, my mother decided to give me her copy of The Joy of Sex, which led me to draw two conclusions:
a) I am not the result of in-vitro fertilisation, as I had always secretly hoped.
b) She has memorised the entire book, and therefore doesn't need it anymore.
But I don't blame the book for that, poor thing. It can't help that it was a gift, or that it isn't the petri dish proving my conception sans sexual intercourse. If she had only shattered my in-vitro dreams when I was still young enough to not be bothered by the concept, there would not be years and years of therapy looming in front of me.
Or, at least, my future therapy would be unrelated to that moment.
Moral of the story? If your children are bookish fiends, let them read and be open enough with them that you will not scar them later in life. It can only help them.
They'll work it out eventually, whether you tell them or not.
ETA: As it is now officially March 18, it is the four-year anniversary of Boyfriend and I. Meep.
Simultaneously sweet and scary. More on this later, because I have a toasty bed awaiting my presence.