Harriet the Spy is the reason I became a writer. Well, not entirely, but she’s the fictional sister of my soul. With her ratty jeans and tool belt full of spy stuff, her endless number of notebooks, and her love of observation, she snuck into my life when I was eight or ten years old, and lingered thereafter.
I had occasion to re-read this book in late November, because I bought two copies of it, one to replace my own, lost years ago, and the other to send to a stranger as part of a book exchange. (Adults were to share their favorite children’s books).
Even though the book is short, and the language is juvenile, I still love the characters and the story. I credit Harriet for my recent habit of wearing belts again.