Where Fiction meets Real Life...

For as long as I can possibly remember, I have nurtured an ongoing love affair with books. There has never been a time in my life that I haven't been in the middle of reading something for pleasure. (With one notable exception: the "Dark Ages", aka my Graduate School Years--when I had to read thousands of pages of anatomy, and neurology, and language development, and couldn't spare any brain cells to focus on a novel. Yes, what an extraordinarily sad time that was in my Literary Life!) But I don't just read a story, enjoying the plot and characters in a detached, third-person kind of way...you know, like the manner in which a normal human being approaches a book. Quite the contrary--for me, if I'm truly caught up in a narrative, I feel almost like I'm part of the tale, like I know the characters personally (and care deeply about what happens to them, of course), like my emotions are completely engaged in what's transpiring on the page. I mean, my heart has been known to pound, my blood to boil, my spirits to lift, my tears to flow, my laughter to bubble up--all as a result of the typewritten words in front of me. This explains why I periodically reread books I first discovered as a teenager (A Wrinkle in Time), since it seems like visiting familiar, beloved old friends. It also speaks to why I devoured the Hunger Games trilogy in less than a week (and was so intensely involved in Katniss's plight that I literally could not breathe for the last chapter...or view the print very well through the mist in my eyes. Is this a common problem? Let's just say yes and move on, shall we?)

And then, of course, there's...Harry. (First names only, that's how close we are...in my own little universe...) How could I fail to mention the best thing to happen to Children's Fiction in...well...ever? (I may very well be biased. So what, it's my Blog and I'll opinion...ate if I want to!) I first made the acquaintance of The Boy Who Lived a few years after he appeared in print. I had heard the buzz, and wanted to see for myself what it was all about. Incidentally, have I ever mentioned that when I was growing up, I wanted to BE a witch? And I'm not just talking about watching Bewitched and thinking "oh, how cool to be able to cast spells." Oh no, I distinctly recall asking my Elementary School Librarian for a handbook, or something, on how to transform oneself into an actual witch. (This woman was such a treasure. She and I had a lovely relationship, whereby I'd come in every day--yes that's right, I said every day--before school and choose a new book to read. Don't act surprised; I know I've 'fessed up to my uber-nerdy-childhood before.) Bless her, Ms. F took my request in stride...but regretfully informed me that no such book existed. Undeterred, I set out to write my own Spellbook. (Infuriatingly, none of my formulas worked.) Anyway...you can see why the fantastical world of Wizards and Muggles grabbed me so tightly; I secretly wanted it all to be true! (And let's face it, in my own school era, I kinda was Hermione...without the wand.) I pre-ordered HP Book 7, so it would arrive on Publishing Day. When we heard it hit the doorstep (it is 800 pages, after all...and yes, of course I was listening for the delivery truck) my family knew I was not to be disturbed until I had absorbed it cover-to-cover. I unfortunately had to stop to sleep when I couldn't see straight anymore, but I read that sucker in less than 24 hours...and felt utterly bereft when it was over. What do you mean, no more Harry?

So how does this relate to my life in the present? (Besides still waiting for J.K. Rowling to write something else?) As with so many things, it seems I've passed this particular trait to my sons. When Derek was old enough, we read the Harry Potter series aloud to him. All seven books, no cutting, no changing words, no toning it down. Then a few years later we did the same thing for Riley. Eventually each of the boys has taken the books and read them on their own, befriending Harry, Ron, and Hermione just as I did. Derek is in the middle of rereading the entire series right now, as a matter of fact. And I wasn't aware of quite how much of my--let's call it Imagination Gene--he actually harbored until he said just the other day, "Mom, I'm almost 12 years old...and I still haven't gotten my Hogwarts Letter yet!" (I feel your pain, buddy--me neither! And lest you worry about our collective grip on reality, let me assure you that we were both kidding...mostly...) Then last night he looked up from Order of the Phoenix and called from his room, "Mom, can I go to Quidditch Camp this Summer?" You bet, honey! And maybe I can sign up for that Charms class I've always wanted to take, too! Clearly I've got some research to do...wands and brooms to buy...serious Intervention to schedule for two people a bit too involved in a rich, vivid Fantasy life...