![]() I’m grateful to the writer who introduced me to the rough music of the woods, and to writing in a different way, making style stand out. ![]() His one-word sentences, his hard-hitting and minimalist writing, still stud my memory. The true-to-life pain and fear Paulsen depicted were my first introduction to the brutal honesty a story could contain. I cherish the books of Gary Paulsen in a different way than the fantasy stories that took me on comforting journeys to fairy tale worlds. Boys learning to build a fire and gut a ruffed grouse. ![]() Sled dogs running through the night, their toes freezing in an Alaskan winter. Next to those books stand Paulsen’s, about wolves tearing open the guts of a deer on a frozen lake. There are unicorn novels and tales of talking mice fighting fantasy wars, along with the many books about teen wizards. ![]() The Gary Paulsen books are in a box in my basement now, yellowing the way all paperbacks do, tucked among the pantheon of the most beloved, the most favorite middle-grade reading experiences I’ve ever had. ![]()
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