Category: Reading at home

The stack on the nightstand keeps growing. Same character, same series, every volume known by heart and reread anyway, with a flashlight, long after lights out. And somebody who means well, a grandmother, a teacher, or you at eleven at night, says the line: “Yes, but that isn’t reading.”

It turns out there’s a table for this.

A comic book has 53.5 rare words per thousand. A children’s book has 30.9. Nearly double, in favor of the stack on the nightstand. This is one of ten reasons a child won’t read, and the only one that gets solved by changing a grown-up’s mind. The child can keep right on reading.

How much rare vocabulary is in a comic?

There’s a classic count by Hayes and Ahrens, from 1988, that Anne Cunningham and Keith Stanovich reproduced in American Educator in 1998. It measures how many rare words turn up per thousand, across the places where people meet language:

Where	Rare words per 1,000
Abstracts of scientific articles	128.0
Newspapers	68.3
Popular magazines	65.7
Comic books	53.5
Adult books	52.7
Children’s books	30.9
Cartoon shows	30.8
Expert witness testimony	28.4
Popular prime-time adult shows	22.7
College graduates to friends and spouses	17.3
Preschool books	16.3

What counts as a “rare word.” The study defines it as a word outside the ten thousand most frequent: “roughly a word that is outside the vocabulary of a fourth to sixth grader.” And it adds why that matters: “for vocabulary growth to occur after the middle grades, children must be exposed to words that are rare by this definition” (Cunningham and Stanovich, American Educator, 1998).

Before anyone brings the table to Thanksgiving dinner, read it carefully:

• The comparison that matters is with children’s books, and there the gap is wide: 53.5 against 30.9.
• The comparison with adult books calls for caution. 53.5 and 52.7 sit close enough that “comics are richer than a grown-up novel” would be stretching it.

And a note on the date: the count is from 1988. The comics of that era leave out manga, which has since taken over the shelves. If someone publishes a modern replication, this table gets updated.

What work does reading a comic actually do?

The visible work is reading the speech balloons. The work that counts happens somewhere else: in the gap between two panels.

One panel shows someone running toward a door. The next shows that same someone soaked to the skin. What happened in between, that they went outside, that the door opened onto the street, that it started pouring, gets supplied by the reader. Nobody writes it down. Every gap between panels is an inference the reader has to make, and a single page holds six or seven of them.

That’s exactly the skill a teacher is reaching for with “Why do you think the character did that?” The difference is that in a comic, children do it fifty times in an afternoon, without being asked, and with a grin.

On top of that: keeping track of who’s who across a long series, following a sequence in time, and reading a mood off a drawn face. That’s a lot of curiosity at work for something called “just comics.”

Curious about the scaffolding of a story from the inside? The parts of a story, explained with an actual story shows the same pieces in different bodywork.

Will they move on to “real books”?

Maybe. It’s the line in every article on the subject, “comics are a gateway,” and when you go looking for the evidence behind it, you find very little. What’s actually been measured is the table: while they’re reading comics, they’re meeting rare words at a rate nothing else in their day matches, except a book.

So the comic earns its place for what it does today. Treating it as a waiting room for something better also has a practical cost: children notice, and discovering that your favorite thing is the lesser version of something else is the fastest way to drop it.

What if what they read is terrible?

It happens, and it’s a fair objection. Endless series, assembly-line artwork, the same joke on every page.

Two answers hold at once. First, the rare-word rate in that table holds up fairly well regardless of literary quality: even a mediocre comic tends to sit above a good children’s novel in lexical density. Second, quality does matter, and the way to raise it is to widen the offer. Taking away what’s there works against you.

And taking it away has a cost. In a survey of 1,755 British families, “more than eight in 10 children agree their favourite books –and the ones they are most likely to finish–are the ones they pick out themselves” (Scholastic, UK Kids & Family Reading Report). Take away what they chose, and you take away the part that makes them finish.

How to build on what they already read

Without asking them to give anything up:

1. Ask what it’s about. Real curiosity, no quiz. A child summarizing four volumes of plot is doing reading comprehension out loud, and usually enjoying it.
2. Go to the library and ask for the graphic novel section. Public and school libraries catalog graphic novels, and someone there knows them well; their list is the good one, and it’s free.
3. Find the graphic novel version of something they already love. Plenty of classics come in panels, and so do plenty of history and science series, made by people who know what they’re doing.
4. Try a sideways step before an upward one. From comics to a picture book with plenty of text, or to illustrated nonfiction. That’s where the four formats and what each one does comes in.
5. When they want a book without pictures, let them pick it. That’s when three things you can measure with the book in your hands earns its keep.

What to say when someone in the family says it isn’t reading

Three lines, from gentlest to most persuasive:

“They’re meeting more rare words than they would watching TV.” True, and kind: 53.5 against 22.7, and the table is published.

“School and public libraries shelve graphic novels right alongside novels.” The institutions whose job is deciding what counts as a book settled this a while ago. That’s why the section exists, with a librarian attached to it.

“I’d rather they read something every day than nothing three times a year.” This one comes out after the other two. And it comes out without needing to win: whoever raised the objection almost always did so because they want that child to do well. So do you. You’re on the same side. (And if the worry is about minutes, look at what the famous twenty-minute rule actually measured.)

Where to go from here

This week, sit down and ask them to tell you about the one they’re reading. It’s the cheapest conversation there is, and it’ll tell you what they’re hungry for in that series: humor, belonging, a safe dose of fear, a friendship. Look for that next, in whatever format it comes.

And if comics don’t catch either, there are more causes to check, ordered from the cheapest to rule out to the slowest to change, in the ten reasons.

Where these numbers come from

• Cunningham, Anne E. and Stanovich, Keith E., “What Reading Does for the Mind,” American Educator, 1998. Table 1 is adapted from Hayes and Ahrens (1988), “Vocabulary simplification for children: a special case of ‘motherese’?”, Journal of Child Language. Source
• Scholastic, Kids & Family Reading Report 2014, UK edition. A sample of 1,755 parents and children aged 6 to 17, fielded in summer 2015. Source

Four books lie open on the nightstand. In three of them, the bookmark sits somewhere around page twelve. The fourth has been face down for a month, in chapter two, like a tent somebody forgot to take down.

That pile is information, and it’s more useful than it looks.

Where a book gets abandoned tells you what happened. In the first pages, it’s almost always the cost of getting in, and there’s a documented effect that explains it. Halfway through, it’s usually pace. And if every book gets dropped, every time, the cause lives outside the book.

This is one of ten reasons a child won’t read, seen from the after side.

Where do they stop? That’s the answer

Take a look at the bookmarks in the last three books they started:

Where it stopped	What it usually means	What to do
Pages 1 to 15	The entry toll: new world, new style	Read that stretch aloud to them
First third	The book’s promise arrived too late	Change books, and look at the pace
Right in the middle	Pace or length	Shorter books, shorter chapters
Near the end	Rarely a problem: they know how it ends	Let it go; they read it
All of them, always, anywhere	The cause lives outside the book	Check the other nine reasons

The surprising row is the second-to-last: stopping near the end is normal. Once the plot has resolved in their head, the book has done its job.

Stopping in the first pages: the entry toll

The first pages of a book are the hardest stretch of that book. It sounds odd, and it has a known explanation from the world of language teaching.

Stephen Krashen calls it “the first few pages effect.” He describes it like this: readers of a new work “often report that they find the first few pages of a new author’s work tough going. After this initial difficulty, the rest of the book goes much easier.” And he names the mechanism: “this is due to the fact that the context, the story, was new, and, in addition, the reader had not adjusted to the author’s style” (Krashen, Language Magazine, 2004).

Where that comes from, so you know. Krashen describes it in intermediate foreign-language students. Here we’re talking about an eight-year-old reading in their own language. The mechanism he names, a new world plus an unfamiliar style, is the same one at work in front of a new author at eight, so the leap is reasonable. It just hasn’t been tested in that group yet.

What to do with it, and it’s the cheapest idea in this whole article: read the first fifteen pages aloud to them. You pay the toll on their behalf. After that, the book runs downhill, and often they carry on without even noticing you’ve stopped. (Reading aloud to them keeps paying off, by the way, far longer than most people think.)

Stopping halfway: the pace

This is the most common case, and the one that has least to do with willpower.

A book loses its reader when too much time goes by without anything happening. In the craft of writing for children, that stretch has a known address: after the problem has been set up and before it starts to resolve. Writers who know it put something there; writers who don’t lose their reader at exactly that spot. To see where those hinges sit, read the parts of a story, explained with an actual story.

From the outside, it’s just as quick to diagnose. Open the book at the bookmark and read two pages: if nothing happens in two pages, you have your answer.

The way out is a different book, chosen more carefully with three things you can measure with the book in your hands: pages, text per page, and how often something happens.

Stopping on all of them, every time

When it happens at any point, with any book, and has for months, the book is innocent.

That’s when to look elsewhere: whether decoding still takes everything they’ve got, so the story never gets a chance to arrive; whether their head hurts when they read; or whether the hour is simply wrong. The other nine causes are in the ten reasons, ordered from the cheapest to rule out to the slowest to change.

The way out that works: the series

If the problem is the entry toll, there’s a way to pay it only once: make the next books belong to the same world.

Krashen calls it narrow reading, and his argument is direct. “Since each writer has favorite expressions and a distinctive style, and each topic has its own vocabulary and discourse, narrow reading provides built-in review.” And on context: “background knowledge is a tremendous facilitator of comprehension… the more one reads in one area, the more one learns about the area, and the easier one finds subsequent reading in the area.”

Translated to an eight-book series: the first one costs, the second costs half, and from the third on, the reader is home. The characters are there, the world is there, the vocabulary comes back around. The only new thing is the plot, which is exactly what they came for. It’s how curiosity grows best: with a familiar place to stand.

The good objection: doesn’t reading the same kind of thing over and over box them in? Krashen answers it: “deep reading in any topic will provide exposure to a tremendous amount of syntax and vocabulary that is used in other topics,” and readers “gradually expand their reading” on their own.

And if what they already finish is a run of graphic novels, that’s narrow reading already working: what they read there carries more rare words per thousand than a children’s novel.

Is it bad to abandon a book?

Abandoning books is what people who read a lot do.

Someone who reads twenty books a year starts thirty. Choosing, trying fifteen pages and putting a book back is part of reading, and it’s a skill worth learning early. The person who finishes absolutely everything they start usually ends up starting very little.

There’s a practical reason to go easy on forcing it, too. In a survey of 1,755 British families, “more than eight in 10 children agree their favourite books –and the ones they are most likely to finish–are the ones they pick out themselves” (Scholastic, UK Kids & Family Reading Report). Marching them through a book they didn’t choose spends what little goodwill there is.

Where to start

This week, check where the bookmark sits in the last book they dropped. If it’s on page twelve, read that stretch aloud tonight and stop right where it gets good. If it’s halfway, go find a shorter one together.

And if it’s always anywhere at all, the book was never the problem: the ten reasons are waiting.

Where these numbers come from

• Krashen, Stephen, “The Case for Narrow Reading,” Language Magazine 3(5), 17–19, 2004. The author describes the first-few-pages effect and narrow reading in the context of foreign language acquisition. Source
• Scholastic, Kids & Family Reading Report 2014, UK edition. A sample of 1,755 parents and children aged 6 to 17, fielded in summer 2015. Source

The tablet came out one Tuesday so dinner could get made. It worked beautifully. And it’s been there every Tuesday since, and most Wednesdays, and lately a Sunday or two.

That was a reasonable decision, made by a tired person with a stove on. Before you carry it around as a worry, look at what the data says.

A review of 58 studies with 480,000 participants found that total screen time showed no relationship with academic performance. What did show up alongside poorer performance was watching television and playing video games. So the useful question shifts from how many hours to which screen.

This touches several of ten reasons a child won’t read, starting with the time of day.

How much screen time is too much?

There’s an answer that rearranges the question.

A team at Universitat Jaume I in Castellón, Spain, reviewed 58 studies from 23 countries with 480,000 participants aged 4 to 18. Thirty of those studies, covering 106,000 participants, went into a meta-analysis.

The headline result, in their words: “the amount of time spent on overall screen media use was not associated with academic performance.” The measured effect was −0.29, with a confidence interval that crosses zero, from −0.65 to 0.08 (Adelantado-Renau et al., JAMA Pediatrics, 2019).

And the second result, which always travels with the first. Television viewing was linked with lower composite scores (−0.19, from −0.29 to −0.09), and so was video game playing (−0.15, from −0.22 to −0.08).

What “associated” means. That the two things show up together in the data.

Television may take time away from other things. Houses where the TV is on more may have other things going on, too. Children who are having a harder time at school may reach for more television. The study measures the company the two keep, and leaves the direction open.

What a family can do with that: stop counting hours and start looking at which ones.

Which screen actually competes with the book

Out of the distinction that study draws comes a table a household can use:

Screen	How it behaves next to a book
TV on in the background	The one most linked to poorer performance, and the one nobody really chose
Long, open-ended video game session	Linked as well. The session with no natural end is what swallows the afternoon
Short game with a clear end of round	It finishes on its own, and leaves a gap afterward
Short videos on autoplay	No natural end. The format closest to background TV
Screens with text: chat, subtitles, articles	That’s reading, and it counts
Audiobook, or a book on a screen	Reading, in different bodywork

The row that changes a house the most is the first one: background TV is the only screen nobody decided to turn on. It’s also the easiest to turn off, because nobody is watching it.

The screen that reads

Part of screen time is reading.

Subtitles on a show, the family group chat, the wiki page about the game, the article about their team: all of that is text a child is decoding, at speed, by choice, for a reason they care about. It’s the same argument as for graphic novels, which count as reading.

Say it out loud at home. The household tally of “time reading” almost never includes any of it, and the household tally of “time on screens” almost always does. The same twenty minutes get filed in the wrong column twice.

There’s a practical consequence. A child who reads three thousand words of game wiki on a Saturday morning has done something the reading log will never show, and something that behaves, as far as vocabulary goes, a good deal more like a book than like a cartoon. That’s curiosity doing its job on whatever it found.

What to change first, if anything

No stopwatch, and no grand family negotiation. One concrete thing at a time:

1. Turn off the background one. The TV nobody is watching is the cheapest change, and the least argued about.
2. Change one slot before touching the whole day. Half an hour, say before dinner, with the whole house off screens. The grown-ups’ phones included.
3. Prefer what ends on its own. A round with an end, one episode, a ten-minute video. What finishes leaves a gap; what runs on takes the afternoon.
4. Put the book where the screen was, in the same slot and just as close to a hand. If it takes getting up to find it, the book loses. A little reading corner helps here.
5. Offer a format that competes on equal terms. An audiobook in the car, a comic on the table, a word game at dinner. What each format does, and the evidence behind it has more on each.

And a note on time, the resource underneath all of this: how much reading time is actually enough has its own article, with the table from the study that produced the famous figure, here.

About the guilt

Someone who puts on a screen so they can cook is solving a real problem with the tool at hand, at seven in the evening, after a whole day.

Competing with a device designed by large teams to hold attention is hard, and the outcome of that contest says very little about a family. The finding above backs that up: across 480,000 participants, total screen time showed no relationship with school performance.

What’s within reach is smaller and more specific: one slot, one screen, and a book closer to a hand than the remote.

Where to start

This week, turn off the background TV and leave a book on the table where the remote usually sits. Nothing else. If someone opens it by the third afternoon, you have your answer.

And if the screen turns out to be the excuse and the cause lives somewhere else, there are nine more reasons in the ten, from the cheapest to rule out to the slowest to change.

Where these numbers come from

• Adelantado-Renau, Mireia, and coauthors, Universitat Jaume I, Castellón, “Association Between Screen Media Use and Academic Performance Among Children and Adolescents: A Systematic Review and Meta-analysis,” JAMA Pediatrics 173(11), 1058, 2019. DOI 10.1001/jamapediatrics.2019.3176. Figures taken from the article abstract. Source

It’s eight thirty. The book has been open to the same page for ten minutes. There have been two trips to the bathroom, one negotiation about a glass of water, and a sudden, urgent interest in the cat. The reading log on the fridge wants twenty minutes, initialed, and you haven’t managed five in three days.

If that’s your evening, start with two things. Nobody in this scene did anything wrong. And there is usually something specific underneath, something you can look at and check.

When a seven-year-old won’t read, the cause is often ordinary: how they see, where they sit, which book they happened to be handed, what time of day it is. The ten below run from the cheapest to rule out to the slowest to change, with what to check for each one and what checking it costs. Each has its own article, if you want to go deeper.

Where do I start if my child won’t read?

With the cheapest. The order of this table is deliberate: the first few can be ruled out in an afternoon, and if one of them turns out to be the answer, you’ve saved yourself months of pushing in the wrong direction.

#	What might be going on	What to check	What it costs
1	They can’t see the page	How close they hold it, squinting, headaches after reading	One eye exam
2	Decoding still takes everything they have	Listen to two pages read aloud	An afternoon
3	The book is wrong for them	Length, type size, how many pages	A library trip
4	The format is wrong	Try a graphic novel, a picture book, audio, large print	A loan
5	Something else may be going on	What their teacher sees in the classroom	A conversation
6	It’s the wrong time of day	Move the time for one week	Nothing
7	They read, just not that	What they read when nobody asks them to	Nothing
8	Reading feels like homework	A month without asking what they understood	Nothing
9	Nobody reads at home	Who reads in front of them, and when	Slow
10	There’s nowhere to read	Where they sit, and what light they have	A lamp

All ten are below. At the end is the number most families carry around like a stone in their shoe: twenty minutes a day. It comes with its source, and with what its own authors said about it.

While you work out which one is yours, the story can keep reaching them some other way. It helps to know how a story is built on the inside: with that in hand, you can tell at a glance whether a book is likely to hold them to the end.

What if they can’t see the page?

This one comes first because it’s the cheapest to rule out, and the one almost nobody checks first.

In Philadelphia’s public schools, 18,974 children in grades K–5 were screened. Of those, 2,492, or 13.1%, had an uncorrected refractive error (Journal of AAPOS, 2018). One child in eight, in a single district, with the class moving on regardless.

What it looks like at the kitchen table:

• They hold the page very close, or squint at it.
• They tilt their head to look at the page.
• They skip lines, or read the same one twice.
• They complain of a headache right after reading.
• They follow the story when you read it, and lose it when they read it.

What to do: a full eye exam settles it in one visit. The school screening is a useful first pass, and it measures something narrower than you’d think; what it misses, and which exam to ask for has its own article.

What if decoding still takes everything they have?

Sit next to them and ask them to read you two pages out loud. That’s where you hear what silent reading hides.

If they read word by word, stopping to assemble each one, and reach the period having forgotten how the sentence began, the difficulty sits upstream of the story. All their effort is going into decoding, and there’s nothing left over for wondering what happens next. Asking them to enjoy it in that state is asking them to run while they’re still learning to walk.

The clearest signal is this one: they follow the story perfectly when you read it, and lose it when they read it. When that happens, the kindest move is to keep reading aloud while the mechanics settle, and let them read the short things in life: a caption, a street sign, the grocery list. And you can keep reading aloud for much longer than most people think.

What if the book is wrong for them?

A book fits when they can carry it. Three things decide that, and the age printed on the back is the least reliable of the three: how many pages it has, how much text sits on each one, and how often something happens.

Two hundred pages in the hands of someone who reads slowly say one thing: this is bigger than you. Forty pages, with three-page chapters, say the opposite. Three things you can measure with the book in your hands will tell you which one you’re holding.

And if they drop books halfway through as a pattern, that’s information too. It’s almost always length or pace, and where they stop tells you which.

What if it’s the format?

The chapter book with small type and tight margins is one format among many, and it happens to be the hardest fit for someone who’s just getting going.

Four that work: the graphic novel, the picture book where the pictures carry half the story, large print with more space between the lines, and audio. Audio has a reputation for being cheating. What it actually does is keep the story alive while the mechanics of reading finish settling. There’s a whole article on what each format does, and whether audiobooks count.

All four can live together: the same title can arrive through the ears this week and through the eyes next month.

What if something else is going on?

Sometimes the difficulty holds after you’ve checked the eyes, the book and the format. Then it’s time to ask, and asking is the whole of what belongs to a parent here.

Before you read any number anywhere, keep one thing in mind. The prevalence of dyslexia “is better represented as a distribution that varies as a function of severity as opposed to any single-point estimate,” and published rates “range from less than 5 percent to 1 in 5 or 20 percent” (Wagner et al., Journal of Learning Disabilities, 2020). The same thing, measured with different cut-offs, produces figures four times apart. So a single number in an article tells you very little about the child in front of you.

What does belong to you: talk to their teacher, who sees them reading alongside twenty-five other kids their age and has the comparison you can’t have at home. That’s where an evaluation starts, if one is needed. Naming what you observe is yours to do; naming what it is belongs to someone trained for it.

What if it’s the wrong time of day?

The hour decides more than it seems. By eight thirty, school, homework, dinner and the bath have already happened. You’re asking for the last drops of the day’s attention, for the activity that needs the most of it.

The test takes a week: move the time. Saturday morning, the fifteen minutes in the car before drop-off, or the stretch while you cook dinner. If ten minutes show up at the new hour that were impossible at eight thirty, the hour was the answer. And if even ten feels like a lot, five minutes of reading together turns out to be plenty.

What if they only read graphic novels?

Then they read.

In Mexico, where this house is based, the national statistics institute counts comics, graphic novels and manga among the reading materials it measures, right alongside books: 20.9% of literate people aged twelve and over read them in 2025 (INEGI, MOLEC 2025). The agency whose whole job is measuring how much a country reads settled this one already.

A graphic novel asks a lot of its reader: follow a sequence, keep characters in mind, infer what happened between two panels, read a mood off a drawn face. A child who tells you they got through four volumes of something has a reading habit up and running, under a different cover. The numbers are even more striking than that: one figure settles the graphic novel question.

The thing to look at here is the household definition of what counts. When a child hears that their thing doesn’t count, they learn two things at once: that reading is boring, and that they’re bad at it.

What if reading feels like homework?

For a lot of children, reading and being tested arrived in the same year and never separated. You read, and then someone asks what you understood, how many words per minute, what the lesson was. The log gets initialed. That’s work, and work gets done under protest.

The test runs for a month, and it consists of taking something away: for four weeks, nobody asks what they understood. You read, you close the book, you turn off the light. If by week four they’re asking for the book themselves, the quizzing was the problem.

When the conversation runs dry, there are twelve questions to ask a child that turn a reading into a chat instead of a quiz, and a handful of word games to play tonight.

What if nobody reads at home?

This is the uncomfortable one, and the one that has least to do with anyone’s willingness.

A house where nobody reads in front of anybody is a house where reading looks like something you do at school. And that usually comes down to ten-hour shifts and libraries that close at six, not to families who chose wrong.

What fits is small, and it works: read something in front of them for fifteen minutes. Anything, including the news on your phone, as long as you say out loud what you’re reading. Let the scene exist. Watching someone read is the oldest way there is of learning that reading is something people do for fun. There’s more on what the research actually measured, and it’s more hopeful than the question sounds.

What if there’s nowhere to read?

Look at where they sit to read. If the answer is the kitchen table with the TV on, or bed in the dark with the hallway light, the room is asking them to give up.

It takes very little: a lamp that puts light on the page, somewhere their back is supported, and a low shelf with covers facing out instead of spines. A book you can see gets picked up. A spine among thirty spines, almost never. You can build a reading nook from what’s already at home, even one that fits in a shoebox.

Does twenty minutes a day actually hold up?

This number deserves its own section, because it hands out more guilt than any other.

The line that circulates, that twenty minutes a day adds up to 1.8 million words a year, comes from a real study: Richard Anderson, Paul Wilson and Linda Fielding, Growth in Reading and How Children Spend Their Time Outside of School, 1988. One hundred and fifty-five fifth graders wrote down every day, for weeks, how they spent their time outside school.

What almost never gets passed along is which part of the table the number came from:

Percentile	Minutes of book reading per day	Words per year
98	65.0	4,358,000
90	21.2	1,823,000
50	4.6	282,000

Twenty minutes is the 90th percentile: the top ten percent of readers in that group, in 1988. Half of those children read for 4.6 minutes a day. The figure handed out as a minimum was, at its source, the mark set by the most bookish tenth of 155 kids.

And there’s one more line, on the same page of the same study, written by the authors themselves: “The estimates of words read per year shown in Table 3 are unstable since the error in the constituent measures is magnified.” They put the warning in. Thirty years of classroom posters left it out.

What to do with that: twenty minutes works as a direction to walk in, and makes a poor exam. If five minutes happened this week, those five minutes count. And anyone who’s gone three days without them is standing exactly where half the children in the founding study stood. The full story of the twenty-minute rule, and what reading time actually buys, is here.

What can I do tonight?

Start with number one. This week, watch how close they hold the page and whether their head hurts afterward; one visit rules it out. If that comes back clear, listen to them read two pages aloud, and you’ll know whether decoding is taking everything. That’s two evenings, and together they rule out the two most common and least examined causes.

Meanwhile, the story can keep arriving another way: you read it, they listen, or you write one together. If you’d like to start there, the guide to writing a story where your child is the one who lives it walks you through it.

And at Idunn we’re making books where a child’s name, family and way of moving through the world go inside the text. They’re not ready yet; you can ask us to let you know when they are.

Where these numbers come from

• Mayro, Hark, Shiuey et al., “Prevalence of uncorrected refractive errors among school-age children in the School District of Philadelphia,” Journal of AAPOS, 2018. Source
• Wagner, Zirps, Edwards et al., “The Prevalence of Dyslexia: A New Approach to its Estimation,” Journal of Learning Disabilities 53(5), 2020. Source
• Anderson, Wilson and Fielding, “Growth in Reading and How Children Spend Their Time Outside of School,” Reading Research Quarterly 23(3), 1988. Source
• INEGI, Módulo sobre Lectura (MOLEC) 2025, press release 143/25, November 18, 2025. Source