I’m not reluctant to talk about the things I love on this blog. I have opined about music, movies, Taylor Swift, Maria Sharapova, beer, Taylor Swift, sports, Taylor Swift and other topics that interest me greatly.
But one former obsession that has eluded me over the years is something that played a huge role in my childhood.
And not the actual boy. The world that was created by JK Rowling. The seven books she wrote. The characters, the stories. The magic.
Full disclosure — I have read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone about 20 times. As a young teenager, I read them over, and over, and over again.
I remember vividly how it started. I was about 12 or 13 years old, and my father heard a story on the news about these books that were creating quite a stir, first in England, then in the U.S. He went out and bought it for me. I read it. I loved it. I never looked back.
Over the next few years, I didn’t read anything else. It was Harry Potter, and then more Harry Potter. At first, only three books had been written. I went to Barnes & Noble at midnight to pick up every subsequent book that came out after that.
I loved my childhood. But I loved the world that existed in the Harry Potter universe more. I think that’s why I read them so much. When I opened those pages, I entered that world. And I was in bliss.
The final book was published in 2007. I was 20. And I was ready for it to end. My childhood was over, and I was ready to say goodbye to Harry Potter and the wizarding world.
In anticipation of its release, I re-read all of the books.
I haven’t read them since.
That’s seven years without reading books that I loved. I think I felt like it wouldn’t be the same. I couldn’t read them with the same childlike fervor I once had.
I have a job now. I have to worry about bills, and loans, and deadlines … how can I possibly read about wizards, witches, and magic and be able to separate the two? Plain and simple — my imagination was gone.
Don’t ask me why, but I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone again last week. I started reading it. At first, it felt just as weird as I thought it would. I couldn’t get it out of my head that I am a 27-year-old reading a book aimed for children. But I didn’t stop.
After a few chapters, I stopped thinking like that. Instead I started to remember all of the good feelings I used to have when I read those pages 15 years ago. And most importantly, I found myself becoming excited to be reading it again. When the book is in front of me, and I’m lost in the story, I might as well be a 12-year-old boy again, sitting in his pajamas reading after coming home from school.
The magic has returned.