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Truth: When I get up in the morning, I do not crave the bathroom, water, coffee, or sex, but rather, a large block of text to read. Just like that, verbatim, every morning my brain cues me to go get a "large block of text."

I attribute this to my upbringing--as I've stated many a time, I read. A lot. Nearly constantly, and more so when I was younger. Voraciously. To the point of rudeness.

So it was with great interest that I picked up the Plain Dealer last week to see an article on the perils of children stopping reading for fun over the summer. It was pretty standard summer fare--retain your student's knowledge, and all that--and one of my favorite children's authors, Jon Scieszka (of Stinky Cheese Man fame) had given several statements, including a list, by age, of recommendations for both genders.

Reading down the boys' list, I thought smugly to myself, hey, good stuff. Jumangi, yeah, I like Chris Van Allsburg. Captain Underpants for nine year-olds? Okay, sure, fine, if it keeps them reading, I suppose. Ditto for Lemony Snicket. Ooooh, Ender's Game, cool--and here's The Outsiders, and the major works of J.R.R. Tolkein. Maybe a little age-inappropriate, but that goes both ways over the list, both down and up.

Then I read the girls' list. Paper Bag Princess--cute. The Amazing Days of Abby Hayes: couldn't do any harm, I suppose. Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging for the 13 and ups. Oh.

As it turns out, Jon Scieszka is head of a group called GuysRead, devoted to promoting the literacy of boys and young men. All well and good. But does he have to do it by suggesting parents shove Bridget Jones spin-offs down their daughters' throats?

I've been accused in most unimaginative terms of being an anti-feminist. If anyone is curious, this is where my line gets drawn. I choose to enjoy being in the kitchen. (I also enjoy my job, but no one pays attention to that when there are spittle-flecked rants to go on!) If I cannot choose to give my children, irrespective of gender, good books to read, then I will be sitting down and writing some of my own, or teaching my girls to think like the boys in the books do.

In other news: If you have never read House of Leaves, please just pick it up and flip through it. It can be a tough read at times, but some of the delight of reading it will come from simply--literally--turning the pages. You'll know what I mean. I have a copy if anyone wishes to borrow it.

I love books that have an element of play in them; where the reader is an active participant, where the story isn't just lying there on the lines, it's around and under and through and a lot of other adverbs, and you have to head in there with a pickaxe and coax it out. It's fine if the twists are telegraphed in advance, and it's okay to be a little predictable. Leave me buried treasure and I will adore the book and wave it about and research it online.

That's why I love Nabokov--in addition to bouncing and playing with the language, he leaves lots of doors open for the reader to walk through. I love House of Leaves, ponderous though it is, for the same reason. You can wander forever in this book.

And that--text as a physical construct, as a labyrinth or a highway, a way to get you not only to the author's conclusion but to wherever you wish to go on it--is why I love literature.