I think it’s fair to assume that if you’re reading this blog, you’re maybe just a little “bookish.” The readerly type, if you will. There wouldn’t be much point of you getting my emails and bothering to read them and comment if you didn’t love books and didn’t want to read them to small children. Unless, of course, you’re my mom and just want to read whatever it is I’m writing (Hi, Mom!)- but still, who do you think taught me to read? My point is, we’re all book lovers here. When I was a little girl, I read anything I could get my grubby little hands on. I read with a flashlight under my covers long past bedtime. I read things over and over and over. I devoured books.
But not like Henry. (Did you catch that obvious segue?)
Henry, the little boy in Oliver Jeffers’ super creative 2007…
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