![]() Obviously, I couldn’t understand why she was so concerned. She worried that I would isolate myself from friends, from expectations, from other sources of joy. She soon worried that my reading habit had transformed from a boon into a burden, that I sought to escape the real world and instead find solace through books and solitude in the deep waters of imagination. The habit grew to the point where at night, after lights out when I’d been put to bed, my mother would have to check that I hadn’t snuck a book under my bed sheets to read with a flashlight. It would be a while before I gained the ability to delve into the literary giants of the genre, but still, I began to read books at a voracious speed. I read it from cover to cover before the day was over, and my fascination with fantasy novels was born. I told her “no problem.”Ī couple of days later, she brought home a paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from our local Books-A-Million. She laughed and told me that I’d have to get through six other books before I could read that one. I told my mother I wanted to read the book the people on TV were reading. Eight years old and enraptured, I watched the seemingly infinite queues of people lining up for blocks just to buy a copy of the book the moment it was released, and I wanted in. A newscaster had been discussing the record-breaking sales for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and final novel in the series. ![]() In July of 2007, I was at my grandparents’ house watching TV with my mother when a story caught my attention. ![]()
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