When I was in Sixth Form Pottermania was in full bloom. One novel at a time, we worked our way through the traditional literary canon in my English Literature classes; Virginia Woolf to Thomas Hardy, Aphra Behn to Alice Walker. Meanwhile, the Harry Potter Novels usurped the Bestsellers Lists and I was stunned to find my classmates hooked on the series. They would unashamedly carry the latest novel around with them, snatching moments to read it whilst waiting for teachers to arrive or as registers were being taken.
I couldn't understand why they were wasting their time with children's books. Four hundred page children's books at that. Hadn't the author missed the point as far as her target audience was concerned? Children aren't exactly known for their attention span, after all. The more popular the books became the more inclined I was to avoid them completely, but since everyone kept banging on about how I 'just had to read them!' I gave the first book a chance. I trudged through the first few chapters before putting the book down, forever as far as I was concerned.
I spent the summer before I turned 18 visiting friends in the U.S. Friends who all happened to be avid Harry Potter fans. Friends who were amazed that I hadn't enjoyed them and were determined that I give them another chance. Apparently, once I read the first one all of the way through I'd be hooked. Well, the first book was laying around so, under everyone's advisement, I gave it another go. My second attempt and I made it 3/4 of the way through the book before putting it down again; it really would be forever this time- I was sure of it.
Eight years later and I was traveling for the summer once more, this time visiting family in England. The series had long since been ousted from the bestsellers lists, and with the release of the final film, the craze seemed to be coming to an end. Maybe that had something to do with my choice to pick up The Sorcerers Stone for the third time. Perhaps the fact that nobody was telling me I was bound to enjoy it meant that I didn't feel the need to prove anyone wrong. Whatever it was, on that occasion I really couldn't put it down. I re-read familiar chapters but this time I didn't think them boring or ridiculous, and on my return home Ryan was stunned to hear that I was ready to read book four.
I found myself telling Ryan he should give the books a chance, not words I ever thought I'd say, not words he ever expected to hear, (especially since I'd thrown around phrases like literary garbage on more than one occasion) and he certainly laughed at my change in opinion. A few months later though I noticed him reading the first book. He was reading aloud to Charlotte; it was purely for her benefit of course. Ryan maintained he had no interest in the series but wouldn't it be nice for Charlotte to hear him reading to her? Wouldn't it be nice indeed...Charlotte has now heard books 1-4 and though Ryan still claims he isn't enjoying them he does keep on reading them. And this weekend, impending test or not, he managed to make time to watch films 6, and 7, both parts. I think it's fair to say that he's a fan, whether he'll admit it or not.
I suppose it's best to admit it when you're wrong. I maintain that I really don't love the way the books are written, but it's such a good story- after a while it doesn't seem to matter that it isn't the most amazing English you'll ever read. I definitely got sucked in by the breadcrumb trail of clues woven into the plot, and I loved the minutely imagined details that create a whole different world. It was fun to get lost in someone else's imagination and it was fun to see a jigsaw puzzle of clues come together, and outstanding grammar or not, isn't reading supposed to be fun? More fun than To The Lighthouse, surely.
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