I used to write all the time. Then life happened, and I said I’d start writing the next day. As these things go, “next day” never came, at least not for my word processor. I’m a journalism major, and I don’t even write anymore thanks to the overwhelming apathy I feel toward my continuing college education.
But now the time has come for lengthy ceremony, “Pomp and Circumstance,” and a strange looking excuse for a cap to adorn my head. I’m even graduating with honors, even though I stopped caring about school two years ago. All the energy I spent hating (most of) my education now pours into loving my imminent graduation and cliche post-grad cross-country trip. Oh, and Harry Potter.
I decided that for some reason, it would be a really great idea to re-read “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” before it came out. One day I read four chapters. The next day, I read 6. The day after that, I stayed up until 6 a.m. to complete it, crossing the finish line sobbing harder than I did the first time. Why? Because it’s brilliant. It’s bloody, fucking brilliant.
I know not everyone agrees, but that’s not the point of my egocentric opener. The point is that it moved me. The words creating an imaginary world drew real tears from me. There’s a lot of literature in this world, but not all of it can do that. Something that can touch even one person like that needs to be acknowledged, and I intend to be the one to do it.
I used to write. I used to read all the time. I used to have a book column. But I stopped because loathing of what I didn’t relish overtook the loving of what I did. So thank you, J.K. Rowling, for reminding me of what I do love, which the written word at its zenith.
So I’m going to write again, and I’m going to write about books. I’m taking back my passion from the unchallenging hands that stole it from me, and putting it back into the world. I don’t claim to be an expert, but I do claim to be one of literature’s biggest fans… that’s gotta count for something, eh?