One of my many dirty little secrets is that I'm a very intolerant reader. I detest bad writing, and since "bad writing" is subjective, I find myself filled with a lot of detest a lot of the time. Most of what I pick up I end up putting down, sometimes violently, sometimes by hurling it across the room. Shortly after signing my first book deal, my editor, Kate Miciak, sent me a list of books she suggested I read. I distinctly remember tearing one of them in two and flinging the sections in opposite directions - something that, as an author, I am not proud of, because I know how much effort goes into writing a novel, and I am willing to entertain that - subjectively - that effort is still tremendous, even if the product offends me to my core.

Over the last several years, in fact, I've been reading less and less fiction, and more and more nonfiction. For obvious reasons, I find it easier to suspend my judgment when reading nonfiction.

I am not proud of this, actually. To write, one must read, and that means reading fiction. It is, in fact, a shortcoming I am actively seeking to address, and if there is a resolution for this new year, it's that: I may not become a more tolerant reader, but I will read more.

As an aside, I have a suspicion that I'm not the only writer who suffers from this. We're a terribly judgmental lot about our work. I just have a chronic problem in not knowing when to shut the hell up about it.

Paradoxically, I have become something of a connoisseur of children's literature. This happens when you have two childrens, and you read to them regularly. This is why I am such a tremendous fan of Mo Willems. Aside from his tremendous talent as an artist and storyteller, he consistently delivers books that never condescend to children. I'm also a fan of his somewhat subversive stealth campaign -- his books rely as much, if not more, on visual storytelling (comics) as on the root text.

Still, most children's books suck, and there's no getting around it.

Which brings me to Katherine Paterson's The Great Gilly Hopkins, which most certainly does not suck. I'd not read her stuff before. I managed to miss The Bridge to Teribithia in all of its incarnations. She was unknown to me. I purchased the book based on a chapter of it I had read in an anthology of "Stories for Girls" that my daughter received over the holidays. My daughter fell asleep -- and being four, I don't blame her -- but I was engaged enough to seek the novel out.

Outstanding. Not a whiff of condescension to be found within. Beautifully written, and Paterson's control of voice is enviable -- she flies effortlessly between limited third and first within the space of paragraphs, and it works flawlessly.

Four's young for the book, too young, as it requires a better grasp of the world and a more evolved sense of empathy, but my soon-to-be-eight-year-old is just right for it, and I'm putting it in his hands when he gets home from school.