I could write probably twenty-five posts here about my love for Harry Potter. In confession, I am probably one of the biggest Harry Potter nerds there are. I have read the books four times completely through. I have read through the night still with book in hand when the sun comes up. I laughed roaringly reading them, I sobbed miserably and very unbecomingly through them. I have spent far too many hours thinking about it, listening to podcasts about it, reading the works of John Granger and Travis Prinzi who have discussed and dissected the books multiple times.
Bear with me here, because I am getting to something. When I read Harry Potter it left a profound mark on me and this may seem a silly thing if you are a casual reader. But when you invest yourself that much into the characters of a book, these characters that seem so real after seven books that they feel like family, if you sit and think about the struggle a young boy must go through from abused orphan to tortured teenager, to hero, it is quite a story indeed. If you think about the greater themes of good versus evil, social prejudice, political corruption, and the power of love, which in the end was what the story was about: how a mother’s love was more powerful than evil even after death, if you look at it that way then you know why these books are so important to me.
Last night I finally watched J.K. Rowling: A Year In The Life. It’s been a long time coming for me to watch. I already knew her story, having heard it over and over. Her divorce, her depression, her single motherhood, her poverty, her writing in cafe’s when she had nothing else, the loss of her mother and how it impacted her books. But this documentary which covered her as she finished that last book and took her back through her past moved me in an even bigger way.
It was quite amazing to take that journey with her. To see how from pain and struggle came something quite amazing. To know the power there is in writing and how it can heal. When I turned off the computer last night after watching it I lay awake for quite some time. For weeks and weeks and weeks now I have been struggling with myself, beating myself up for not knowing myself, trying to find myself.
And then last night in the dark, it came to me. I write. I have written for a long, long time. Created in my head, turned words into something else on the page. I have stacks of papers upstairs filed tidily away of the beginnings of stories, the ramblings of my emotions during tough times going way back to my freshman year of high school. It’s what I have always done. When times were tough, when life was too hard, I have escaped into my own imagination and for a long time I have considered that a weakness, others have considered that a weakness, a pulling away from life.
Writing is a very easy and inexpensive form of therapy, any blogger knows this. I find it funny that I have been searching all this time and didn’t see what was right here in front of my face. I am sitting here doing it now, I do it just about every day. I write. It may never, ever amount to anything, but if i do it, and I do it diligently, I might just find myself again. And that would be completely worth it. Thank you Joanne Rowling.