The book, the kid

It’s been a harrowing couple of days.

I have a bound proof (pending a cover illustration) of my new book which my daughter asked to read. That was amazing thing number one: she asked to read it. Amazing thing number two? She actually is. Reading it I mean, and she even took it to school.

My friend Laura Miller seems to think that kids of a certain age are reluctant to read books written by their parents. Hannah ducked out of finishing my first book and I was pretty sure that happened because I’d given it to her far too early, when it was still crammed with unedited slush. Effectively killing the chance that she’d read anything else of mine. This time I didn’t do that. In fact it’s taken me almost a year of editing, and I’m still not done. For me, the process of shaping a second book has been a lot more relaxed, and while I haven’t been talking about it much, it’s in every corner of my head, keeping me up, pulling me out of bed, making me so stupidly happy. Maybe she picked up on that and became intrigued.

Not only is she reading it, she’s talking to me about it. And she’s talking to her friends about it. She’s only a third of the way through, but I just may have written a book for kids that my own kid likes.

It doesn’t get any cooler than that, right?

Now I just have to grit my teeth, not ask where she is in the book, and wait.