A book review of Harry Potter sounds insane, I know. The Harry Potter series is the best known book series in existence. And thank you, J.K. Rowling, from the bottom of my heart. But this post isn’t about the books, but what they mean to me.
In 2000, I was recovering from a nasty divorce when a friend mentioned a fantasy book her son loved and thought I might enjoy. I hadn’t heard of Harry Potter. At that time, while I always had a book or three on hand, I read Stephen King and Robin Cook. The only fantasy I read was Anne McCaffrey. My friend lent me Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on a Friday. On Sunday, I was at the bookstore buying my own copy and the next three books in the series.
The only time I’ve ever gone to a bookstore at midnight was for the debut of the last two Potter books. The only movie I’ve gone to a theater for the premier was for the first Potter movie. Though I’ve transitioned to ebooks, I’ve kept all seven of the books. As the picture shows, three of them are part of my living room decor.
When life hits me, I still turn to Harry Potter and his friends for relief. While sitting in the hospital room with my mother in her last days, I re-read the first two books. After her funeral, I re-read the entire series in a month.
In the history of humanity, storytellers have been revered. From the shepherd at the fire to the court’s poet, stories in all forms have always connected people. In an age where groups of friends gather to spend their time poking at their smart phones versus conversing with each other, writers are more important than ever.
As I fret over the marketing for my book release tomorrow, I’m trying to remind myself what a writer really is. An experience sharer. A stress relieve giver. A connector.
So before getting back to my own writing, I’m gonna finish my coffee and read a chapter of my personal stress reliever. Okay, so maybe two more chapters.