Thanks, Harriet

There were three big influences in my growing up to become a writer: My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Richter, who gave me endless encouragement, my literary hero Mark Twain, and Harriet M. Welsch.

If you don’t know who Harriet M. Welsch is, she’s the precocious protagonist of the young adult novels Harriet the Spy and The Long Secret, by Louise Fitzhough.

Harriet was fearless. She literally spied on people. She didn’t just eavesdrop or play pretend spy. She carried a freaking notebook, snuck into people’s homes if she had too, and took down notes about them. She was a daring little weirdo, and I identified with her completely. I mean, I never snuck into anyone’s house, because I wasn’t half as brave as Harriet, but I wanted to be, and I lived vicariously through her. Harriet’s open embrace of her voyeurism was exciting. She was smart, and endlessly curious, and she was ashamed of neither of those things. She wanted to know what other people did and thought and talked about, so she sought out her own adventures. She wore blue jeans and sneakers and a hoodie, because that was her spy outfit. Along with her notebook in which she wrote down everything she saw, she’d carry a ball in her hoodie pocket whilst spying so that if she caught the attention of any adult, she could whip out the ball and bounce it, like she was just some regular, clueless kid.

What kind of eleven-year-old-girl thinks like that? Harriet.

When Mrs. Richter introduced me to the book Harriet the Spy in the fourth grade, it was like finding a…