Read all the HPs with my kid(I'm older than dirt so I didn't read em when they were originally released). Loved them and wanted something else we could read together. She's 11. I'm reading LOTR to her and my son because he's only 7. She loved Hungar Games. Thinking Dresden Files, RPO, Maze Runner, etc. Any recs are appreciated.
Dresden Files may be a little mature for an 11 year old, but the others sound good (maybe it’s not, my kid is only 22 months so I really don’t know what is mature for an 11 year old). If she likes Fantasy, read her the Mistborn books by Brandon Sanderson. Also the entire Redwall series by Brian Jacques
To be clear we read them independently then then discuss them. LOTR is the only ones I read to her and my son. And thanks old e-friend
That’s awesome too, I can’t wait until my son is old enough to start appreciating books that I still enjoy. I might be able to wait until he is 5 to read him The Hobbit for the first time. Maybe.
Uprooted by Naomi Novik is a good fairy tale style fantasy novel. Good female lead character. Would be a good to read w a young child. We read it for TMB Book Club and was well received.
Agree with most of the book but there is a sex scene. Not extremely graphic but not sure I would want my 11 year old daughter reading quite yet When my kid was about 11 we read The Giver quartet and very much enjoyed it.
I remember it being out of place from rest of book, was funny as shit to me. Think she said something like putting his erect member inside her
Okay maybe the erect member part was from some shitty porn I watched, here is the excerpt: Spoiler I pushed him back down and kissed him. He made a noise of surprise against my mouth and gripped me by the arms, holding me off. “Listen, you impossible creature,” he said, “I’m a century and more older than—” “Oh, be quiet,” I said impatiently; of all the excuses he might have used. I scrambled up the tall side of the bed and climbed in on top of him, the thick featherbed yielding. I glared down. “Do you want me to go?” His hands tightened on my arms. He didn’t look me in the face. For a moment he didn’t speak. Then harshly he said, “No.” And then he pulled me down to him instead, his mouth sweet and feverish-hot and wonderful, obliterating. I didn’t have to think anymore. The heart-tree blazed up with a crackling roar and was gone. There was only the heat of his hands sliding over my chilled bare arms, making me shiver all over again. He had one arm around me, gripping tight. He caught at my waist and pulled up my loose falling-off blouse. I ducked my head through and my arms free of the sleeves, my hair spilling over my shoulders, and he groaned and buried his face into the tangled mess of it, kissing me through it: my throat, my shoulders, my breasts. I clung to him, breathless and happy and full of uncomplicated innocent terror. It hadn’t occurred to me that he would—his tongue slid over my nipple and drew it into his mouth, and I flinched a little and clutched at his hair, probably painfully. He drew away, the sudden cold a bright shock on my skin, and he said, “Agnieszka,” low and deep with an almost despairing note, as if he still wanted to shout at me and couldn’t. He rolled us over in the bed and dumped me in the pillows beneath him. I gripped fistfuls of his shirt and pulled, frantic. He sat up and threw it off, over his head, and I threw my head back and stared at the canopy while he pushed up the maddening heap of my skirts. I felt desperately greedy, urgent for his hands. I’d tried not to remember that one shocking, perfect moment, the slide of his thumb between my legs, for so long; but oh, I remembered. He brushed his knuckles against me and that sweet jolting went through me again. I shuddered all over, hugely, and I closed my thighs tight around his hand, instinctive. I wanted to tell him to hurry, to go slow, to do both at the same time. The curtain had fallen shut again. He was leaning over me, his eyes only a gleam in the dark close room of the bed, and he was ferociously intent, watching my face. He could still rub his thumb against me, just a little. He stroked just once. A noise climbed the back of my throat, a sigh or a moan, and he bent down and kissed me like he wanted to devour it, to catch it in his own mouth. He moved his thumb again, and I stopped clenching shut. He gripped my thighs and moved them apart, lifted my leg around his waist; he was still watching me hungrily. “Yes,” I said, urgently, trying to move with him; but he kept stroking me with his fingers. “Sarkan.” “Surely it’s not too much to ask a little patience,” he said, his black eyes glittering. I glared at him, but then he stroked me again, gently, dipped his fingers into me; he drew a long line between my thighs again and again, circling at the top. He was asking me a question I didn’t know the answer to, until I did; I clenched up suddenly, wrung-out and wet against his hands. I fell back shaking against the pillows; I put my hands up into my snarled mess of hair and pressed them against my damp forehead, panting. “Oh,” I said. “Oh.” “There,” he said, smugly pleased with himself, and I sat up and pushed him backwards the other way on the bed. I caught the waist of his breeches—he was still wearing his breeches!—and said, “Hulvad.” They melted into the air with a jerk, and I flung my skirts after them. He lay naked beneath me, long and lean and suddenly narrow-eyed, his hands on my hips, the smirk fallen away from his face. I climbed onto him. “Sarkan,” I said, holding the smoke and thunder of his name in my mouth like a prize, and slid onto him. His eyes shut tight, clenched; he looked almost in pain. My whole body felt wonderfully heavy, pleasure still going through me in widening ripples, a kind of tight ache. I liked the feeling of him deep in me. He was panting in long ragged breaths. His thumbs were pressing tight on my hips. I held on to his shoulders and rocked against him. “Sarkan,” I said again; I rolled it on my tongue, explored all the long dark corners of it, parts hiding deep, and he groaned helplessly and surged up against me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, clinging, and he put an arm tight around me and bore me over and down into the bed.
Nancy Farmer's books are perfect for 11-14 year olds who are into Tolkien, HP, etc. IMO. The Ear, the Eye, and the Arm is my personal favorite (sci-fi detective/adventure/magic story set in high-tech future Zimbabwe), but her Viking-centric Sea of Trolls series is great as well: Sea of Trolls, The Land of Silver Apples, and The Islands of the Blessed. The House of the Scorpion is also phenomenal, but might be better when she's a touch older.
Elmo Goes to the Potty The Saggy Baggy Elephant Llama Llama Red Pajamas Oh, this isn't a parents read to a 2yo thread....
My sister is just awesome. She is 13 and she already a big fan of fantasy and SciFi. I mean she really knows better than me about something sometimes... Imagine our reaction when she started talking about making her own blog about literature! She even showed me a WordPress hosting company site to make it public. Should we give her a try?