When I was in elementary school, my Dad paid me to read.
Ten dollars for every. Damn. Book.
That’s a kids dream, I tell ya.
Hell… that’s my dream job now.
I spent my summers from grade five to grade eight just whipping through books.
For me, this was an easy way to make money to ball out on candy and really shitty dollar store jewellery.
For him, he thought it was a way to ensure that his daughter didn’t grow up to be completely inept.
Depending on the day, I think he believes it worked. I ended up majoring in English in University, and I’m now completing a postgrad in Journalism.
But anytime I leave a dish in the sink, he definitely looks back wishing he paid me to clean instead. You can’t win em all, Dad.
Joking aside, I think this was one of the best things he has ever done as a parent.
What was originally an incentive, turned into a genuine love for reading which inspired my love for writing.
So. Thanks, Dad.
Without reading 50 page books from the Magic Treehouse series or J-14 Magazines, I probably wouldn’t be chasing the dreams I am today.
For the record, the man never clarified what I had to read but just that I had to read.
I mean, I might have tossed in a Judy Blume book at some point but I probably demanded 20 dollars for that one.
I wasn’t trying to work for free over here?
Time is money, baby.