By way of introduction, I am a father, husband, and physician. I carry a lot of titles, but one of the most interesting to date is being an author. I can’t write about my perfect grammar or extensive training in literature because, frankly, I don’t have it. So, how did I become an author? It was a process, and by sharing with you this short narrative, I hope you understand there was a big change for me turning into a book lover. I am willing to bet the same thing that changed the tide for me will apply to your children. 

Let me be clear, if you have a child who doesn’t like reading, I am talking to you. As a generalization, I was that child. I can count up the number of times my childhood included cuddling next to a parent or sitting next to a campfire with a good book without using any fingers, because the total is zero. It wasn’t part of my life. Reading for enjoyment at an early age was a struggle. Honestly, I would pick books from the elementary school library based on the cover or imaginative drawings hidden in the blur of words. My reading time was spent sketching those drawings. It made me an art lover more than a book lover. When the last drawing was copied, the book would sit in the bottom of my backpack until I made the trip to the library to find my next canvas. If the book was lucky, I would flip through the first chapter or two, but it was an uphill battle. I wasn’t the little engine that could, and I didn’t have enough steam to chug over that hill. The last page, the caboose, never had a chance. 

There was a turning point for me on this railroad, but it didn’t come until junior high. I had proudly started this vast new world, leaving behind elementary school childishness, as a blue ribbon accomplished cartoonist. It was no wonder I didn’t understand why we needed words at all. My art could say it. Until one day, a teacher pushed me up the hill. 

I had a great English teacher. I’m not talking about the one that miserably gave me an “F” in ninth grade English because I couldn’t diagram sentences. This one was different. With a smile, he made us read as a class. He patiently allowed us to make errors, giving us the boost we needed, as we each took turns reading a paragraph at a time. Sometimes we got derailed, with my teacher offering mundane prizes for our reading accomplishments. He once offered to show us his James Bond license plate. It was nothing but a plate that read “007,” but I was sure proud to see it. However, the real prize was the book itself. This book kept me tied to the rails. It wasn’t like before. Despite the cover being an uneventful picture of the desert and not having a single image to sketch, I loved it. I never would have considered it a candidate to pick off the library shelf, but because of my English teacher, it was in my hands.

Remember that absent memory of me reading as a child? An image of me sitting in English class replaced it. Initially there was resistance. I wanted to put down the book and draw, but my English teacher wouldn’t let me. He kept shoveling coal into my furnace. Eventually the fire lit, and black smoke, pouring out of my smokestack, sent me racing up the hill. Reading soon allowed the images that I used to draw to come to life in my mind’s eye. I could see what I was reading! The story was gripping. The end of each class period was met with a sigh and seemed like an uneventful interval until the next class period, where we could start reading again. Class after class came until the caboose finally went over the hill. 

In the end, I can’t say I developed a love for reading. It became something much different. My drawings used to take me somewhere. It was a place I could only reach through paper and pencil until I found reading. The words were a railroad crossing that blocked me for so long. I needed someone to read with me to lift the crossing guard and allow me to pass. It was unimaginably powerful. 

I am no English teacher, but I believe reading with your children will have the same effect. I wish I was better at it. If there is one key to being successful, I would keep in mind you can’t just read anything. A book your child doesn’t find interesting can be as boring as reading the microwave instruction manual. Images they conjure of food being radiated at one gigahertz is not going to move the caboose anywhere. For me, reading to my daughter may involve a book about unicorns and all their magical powers or the inner workings of the Minecraft video game. Bless my daughter’s soul. It is what she wants, not what I would choose. She may not know it until a few chapters deep, but that burden of pushing up the hill is on my shoulders now.

Finally, let me answer the question of how I became an author. In short, a lot of reading is required as a training physician. The years passed as I went to school, and the number of medical journals I studied became mind numbing. Academic reading robbed me. It became an educational process, not a means of enjoyment. My special place was lost, and I missed what I once had. Toward the end of my medical training, a sliver of free time was all I needed to start. I wasn’t just writing; I was lifting the railroad crossing, catching a glimpse of the James Bond license plate, chugging up the hill, and drawing the world only I could see. I was going home. 

Check out Brian’s best selling book, William McFadden and the Puzzle Organ.

We were lucky enough to meet Brian and his wife during our college years. We lived in the same neighborhood and I appreciated how kind they were. Brian seemed to always wear a smile, and it’s no wonder. I didn’t realize just how talented, hard-working, and multifaceted he is. In addition to being a father, physician, author, and illustrator, he likes to do stand-up comedy in his spare time! I am reading his book and thoroughly enjoying the tale of mystery and adventure. After I finish, I know my 13-year-old son will eat it up.

tawnyember

I grew up seeing my parents read. My father loved mysteries and my mom was a voracious reader. However, I do not have any memories of my parents reading to me, and only a few memories of my older sister reading beginner books to me after she started school but before I had.

I do have a vivid memory of being a third grader and sitting curled up on one end of our couch reading a chapter book while my mom was curled up on the other end reading a novel. I remember feeling very grown up and feeling a close connection to my mother. Still, I wanted to do things differently when I was a mom.

Sadly, I wasn’t very successful at reading my favorite kid lit books aloud to my girls. There were a variety of obstacles with my first three and it was only with my youngest that we succeeded in reading many books together. But there was one area where I was successful, and that was reading board books to my babies and toddlers. We had a large collection of them and we read and reread them for years. To this day some of my girls can recite Barnyard Dance or Each Peach Pear Plum at the drop of a hat!

In the past few years I have had the opportunity to provide childcare for several babies and toddlers and have also become a grandmother. I never tire of watching these little ones learn to turn the pages and get engrossed in the pictures and try to repeat the words as we read. If we want kids to love reading, it’s never too early to start reading to them!

Pam is incredibly intelligent and widely read. I’ve even heard she has a photographic memory! Many of the board books Pam mentioned are now on our bookshelves with her family name inside. We treasure them just as she did. Pam met my sister Skye many years ago when they were both stationed in southern California. Then Pam and I wound up in the same congregation in Washington. The Earth is vast, and so are the connections we make with others. We are grateful Pam is part of our world.

tawnyember

My alma mater is Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. Since graduating in 2006, I have enjoyed receiving copies of their high-quality publications. The article below was originally printed in 1984, when the author became BYU Magazine’s longtime book reviewer. I first read it when it was republished in 2011, but the words have stuck with me ever since, particularly his list of “Five Blessings of Reading.” I am so pleased to have the opportunity to share this excerpt with you and hope you will continue on to read the article in its entirety!

No Good Stopping Place

By Richard H. Cracroft

I was certain it was forbidden. And so, of course, I did it—and got away with it, I thought. Night after delicious night, beginning at about age 13, I would say my prayers, prop my antiallergenic pillows high, turn on the bedlamp, and settle in for my nightly read—in such pasty jewels as Tom Swift, Nancy Drew, and, gem of gems, Red Randall at Pearl Harbor. At or near 10 o’clock, my be-nightgowned mother would enter my room; bestow a be-Mentholatumed, be-curlered, and be–cold creamed kiss upon my brow; and turn out my light. As soon as the door closed, I would pull my four-battery Boy Scout flashlight from beneath the mattress and settle in for the most delicious (because forbidden) minutes of my day—reading until the end of the chapter or the episode or the mystery, or until the stack of peanut butter–laden saltine crackers in my bedstand drawer had finally disappeared, leaving their miserable crumbs across the expanse of my bed.

This pleasant routine grew less exciting, however, when I realized, at about age 14, that no batteries could last that long—that Mom had been replenishing them, thus subsidizing my sin. I soon brazenly began leaving the bedlamp on until Dad, elbowed by Mom, would speak as one having authority—that is, loudly—and, after half-past 12 or so, would yell, “Dick, turn out the light—now!” Resigned to the inevitability of sleep, I would grudgingly mumble, “As soon as I reach a stopping place,” and comply.

Since those halcyon days, and especially since becoming a parent myself, I have often pondered the subtle and less-than-subtle ways in which my parents encouraged reading and a love for the arts in our home. I admired them for their conscious and unconscious encouragement, and I wished to go and do likewise. Somewhere, in their very English homes or in high school, they had learned to place a premium on the value of literature. Somewhere, they had learned that literature—and its fair handmaidens, art and music—provides various but satisfying pathways to the discovery of oneself; that study of the best literature (the belles lettres) and the best of music and art allows access to significant human experience and thus can dramatically increase one’s awareness . . .

The rest of the article can be found at the Y Magazine website. Richard goes on to explain how his parents provided a rich foundation for reading in their home, describes his lifelong reading habits, and relates a story that gave him hope regarding his children. I challenge you to print off his “Five Blessings of Reading” (listed at the end of the article) to keep handy when you need extra motivation to read with your children. I so appreciate Richard’s robust thoughts and how they have stayed with me all these years. For in words we find power; in reading we find knowledge.