I imagine I’m not the only one who has finished reading a book and slammed into a very solid emotional fog, in need of some quiet in a large fluffy chair with a favorite forest green mug full of steaming raspberry tea.
Alright, maybe I’m alone with the tea. But around the last four chapters of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, I needed something to pull me back (at least remotely) to the land of the living. So I could seem vaguely conscious and present as other people were talking to me.
Book Five complete. And the adventure continues.
Through all of it, I keep hearing my grandmother’s voice in my head. We’d been talking about the series long before I ever seriously considered reading them. It’s what we do, talk about books. She taught high school English for years, is quite undeniably brilliant and equally good at devouring books.
I remember a conversation in her white, cozy kitchen, how she’d admitted yes, the books did get dark for young readers in her opinion. But she’d also mentioned the beginning, about the “Boy who Lived.” I still remember her voice perfectly as she bent over cooking something, hair hiding her face–
“…it’s really quite wonderful.” As if it was something she smiled about, but didn’t quite want to admit.
Well, I’ve read the wonderful. I’ve charged into the dark. I’ve read the fate of a favorite side character. And brewed a second giant mug of tea.
It’s good writing, if you can get your readers to feel something, no matter what it is they feel. On that count, I’m sure J.K. Rowling can be considered a good writer.
I only wonder what it is, just now, that I feel.