How can teachers distinguish between essential and nonessential books?
When I entered this field of writing, the buzzword of the era was “bibliotherapy”: that you would match the problem in the kid’s life with the problem in the book. And we did have books on every problem, every issue—and we still do—good ones, great ones. But it turned out that it didn’t quite work that way. The kid who had the greatest problem was probably not going to read the book on that subject. Kids read for other reasons. They read mainly for escape. Harry Potter and vampire stories outsell all the rest of us.
If I were a young teacher starting out (and I once was, full of hope), it would be to say first about fiction, “Here are some guidelines for life. Try ‘em on. See if they fit.” [Today] the literate are mostly reading for escape and the nonreaders are escaping into video games. [So] it seems to me the teacher is there for another purpose entirely: to say that a book is more than an entertainment—more than an escape. It is a couple of questions you might ask your old life. The quintessential book in my field isn’t one I wrote; Gary Paulsen wrote it. It’s called Hatchet and it asks the question: What if a plane crashed in the Great North Woods; and the pilot was killed; and I was left there all alone without a peer group in sight; and the only thing I had in my hand was a hatchet. Would I survive? That’s a wonderfully popular book and it’s not fantasy; and it’s not Harry Potter; and it’s not vampires; and also it’s not really about the [Great] North Woods. It’s about: how am I surviving here in junior high? So I think looking for the serious question fiction can ask and letting kids know that’s what fiction’s about is the best thing you can do as a teacher. And it’s not easy. But it’s the part of teaching that is the most rewarding—at least it was to me.
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