I Wrote the Novel ‘Baby Shark’ Is Based On

This is my story.

I was living in the abandoned nest of a pied-billed grebe when the inspiration for my novel, “Baby Shark,” first struck.

At that point, I’d been making a meager living selling my slime to Nickelodeon award shows, and was in a rut artistically.

My previous creative work — all erotic Jar Jar Binks fan fiction — had received a room-temperature reception from the government agencies I’d been in the habit of mailing them to, and I’d begun to grow disenchanted with my dream of one day gracing The Washington Post’s “40 Most Lactose Intolerant Dead Authors” list.

But the peculiar force of my inspiration for “Baby Shark” dragged me from my fetal position in the air duct of the local Moose Lodge and hurled me into the writer’s davenport once more.

The premise of the novel was new and raw, and could perhaps best be summed up in one word: “Doodoodoodoo.”

Without thinking, I began to write. Days passed; then months; then years. Then I realized I’d been holding the pen upside down.

The lives of the characters were complex and kept me guessing…

There was, of course, Baby Shark — the protagonist now internationally recognized by the infamous YouTube sensation video based upon my work; but there was also Mater Shark, Pater Shark, Grandma Shark, Grandpa Shark and, noticeably cut from the film adaptation, Rabbi Goleman Shark.

My publisher, Harry Peak, was against the novel from the beginning. For one thing, he was terrified of adverbs, and would often need to be coaxed out of his washing machine after reading the first page of a draft. He was also concerned about what he said seemed like a “call for a new world order through chaos” in the novel.

“You’ve got chomps, kid, but this fish just ain’t gonna fry,” Harry would sob into the phone from his washer. “Maybe you should take up finger painting, or riding around in a little scooter and yelling ‘Look at the little butterflies!’”

“Harry, I know you’re scared, but I’ve come too far and I’ve sacrificed too much to turn back now,” I would croon, filling my bathtub with yams.

“And what about when Grandma Shark says that ‘True peace must be first digested through the dank bowels of anarchy’?” Harry would retort.

“She’s being facetious because she knows Pater Shark was the one who poisoned her epileptic lover…You know, Harry, sometimes I wonder if you understand my work at all.”

At this point, the conversation was usually cut short after Harry’s wife turned on the washing machine.

I finished the novel and, after gutting it mercilessly, it ended up a brief 40,000 pages.

We could only afford to print one copy, which, due to a printing error, had 10,000 pages that just said “gallbladder time” on them.

Imperfect as it was, we nevertheless sent our creation into the calm waters of public discourse and awaited its ripples, knowing there might be some mild backlash to the thought-provoking themes.

We were correct, and the next day we were promptly beaten, arrested and ordered to leave the great state of North Dakota (the final insult, as we were in Idaho).

I was booted from my nest and Harry’s wife promptly left him for a much better man. I also received a cold letter from Citibank reminding me that I still had a chance to enter a sweepstakes, but that time was running out.

It was in this dire state that I was approached by PinkFong.

Do I regret it, you ask? Do I regret selling all the rights to my magnum opus to an online children’s entertainment company in South Korea for a magical lemur’s tooth and a copy of My Big Fat Greek Wedding on DVD?

Yes I do. But not as much as I regret backing over Harry with my car.