You can go broke trying to get your kids to read.
Seriously. I know I almost did.
My three boys—Charlie, Joe and Jack—are now in high school, doing reasonably well. But when they were in middle school, they all fought me tooth and nail about reading. They were not fans of books. Trips to the library or bookstore were a festival of rolling eyes and shaking heads. The only way I could get them to read was by buying them non-book-related items: everything from food to video games to pets (an adorable little iguana named Leo).
According to my calculations, I’ve bought them 5,987 milkshakes, which adds up, roughly, to 459 milkshakes per book.
Then one day, while we were at Swanky Frank’s sucking down our umpteenth fries-and-black-and-white combos (I couldn’t let them eat alone, could I?), it suddenly occurred to me that there had to be a children’s book out there written specifically for book-haters. But when I looked into it, I couldn’t really find anything. There were tons of books for kids with reading disabilities, and plenty of books featuring kids who don’t like reading at the beginning of the book but love reading by the end. But I couldn’t find a single book about—much less narrated by—a proud, incorrigible, unrepentant, full-blown non-reader.
So I decided to write one.