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  • Alvin Ho: Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Cat
  • Written by Lenore Look
    Read by Everette Plen
  • Format: Unabridged Audiobook Download | ISBN: 9780307941572
  • Our Price: $8.00
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Alvin Ho: Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Cat

Written by Lenore LookAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Lenore Look
Read by Everette PlenAuthor Alerts:  Random House will alert you to new works by Everette Plen

Audio Editions

Read by Everette Plen
On Sale: September 13, 2011
ISBN: 978-0-307-94157-2
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ABOUT THE BOOK ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Synopsis

Synopsis

Here's the third book in the beloved and hilarious Alvin Ho chapter book series, which has been compared to Diary of a Wimpy Kid and is perfect for both beginning and reluctant readers.

Alvin Ho, an Asian American second grader, is afraid of everything. For example, what could possibly be so scary about a birthday party? Let Alvin explain:
• You might be dressed for bowling . . . but everyone else is dressed for swimming.
• You could get mistaken for the piñata.
• You could eat too much cake.
• You could throw up.
So when Alvin receives an invitation to a party—a girl’s party—how will he ever survive?

From Lenore Look and New York Times bestselling illustrator LeUyen Pham comes a drop-dead-funny and touching series with a truly unforgettable character.

“Shares with Diary of a Wimpy Kid the humor that stems from trying to manipulate the world.” —Newsday

“Alvin’s a winner.” —New York Post
Lenore Look

About Lenore Look

Lenore Look - Alvin Ho: Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Cat
I first began making picture books in kindergarten because my other career option at the time was stealing. But a life of crime requires practice and patience, neither of which I had, so I settled into industry, making what I coveted but what my parents could not afford to buy: beautiful books like the ones my teacher read to us in school.
Publishing was no problem in those days, not like it is now. By first-grade, I was my own publisher, making multiple copies of my books by hand. As for fame and fortune, I took care of that, too–I taught my brothers and the neighborhood kids how to wait in line for autographed copies, and I charged them 25 cents a book (an enviable paperback royalty today!), but also accepted candy.
By third grade, I had abandoned the literary scene. My parents had bought an old piano and signed me up for lessons and, thus, I began dreaming of becoming a world-famous concert pianist.
Then I came across a book on Maria Tallchief, and became a ballerina, just like that. I weighed only 40 pounds and could leap and pirouette all day without stopping. It was a lot easier than becoming a pianist.
Then I read a book about a surgeon, and one about a veterinarian, and another about a great tennis player . . . and I found myself wanting to become whatever I’d last read.
Eventually I grew up and became a newspaper reporter. It was the perfect job for me. I got paid to do the two things I loved most: writing and being curious. Working as a reporter taught me how to talk to people, how to find the story behind the story, and how to tell a story in a way that keeps a reader reading. I learned to listen to the way people talk. I learned to be precise and concise in my own choice of words. Best of all, the more I wrote, the more I was filled with a sense of wonder. I loved writing not only about what happens to people, but also about what happens inside of them, which is what writing for children is all about, but I didn’t yet know it.
It wasn’t until I became a mother and began reading children’s books again that I felt what the Chinese call yun fuen, a continuing of work begun in past lives. I had long forgotten my early foray into picture books, the thread I’d dropped in kindergarten, a thin rig, like the one a spider would use in rising. I had journeyed nearly 30 years down through space by then, unaware of my silken strand. Then one afternoon, with my two young children clamoring for something to do, I showed them how to fold paper into a book . . . picked up some crayons and a pen, and then . . . felt myself rising . . . returning to that place where I began, that brief age in which I had so many talents, and leapt and pirouetted into the sun, and could not stop.

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