reading dh has reminded me of all of this
I don't miss Harry Potter.
There's nothing to miss. I'm free to step into a class at Hogwarts or make the trip into Hogsmeade or have dinner at the Burrow anytime I want. I've seen numerous posts and graphics on the internet that reiterate this bold truth: Harry Potter will be with us always. We grew up with these books; now we will grow old with these books. Age and time will have no effect on how we feel about this series. I don't miss Harry Potter because it will never leave me and I will never abandon it.
I miss everything else.
I miss not knowing the next book title, who the next Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be, how Harry will escape the Dursleys. I miss the little riddles on Rowling's website to learn the release date and the desktop countdowns downloaded from Mugglenet that told me exactly how many weeks, days, hours, minutes I had to wait until the next book arrived. I actually miss the waiting and the way time seemed to stretch from that initial announcement until the book's arrival so it felt like we'd been waiting all our lives. I miss the anticipation and the over-the-top excitement, heretofore unrivaled by any other event in my life. That all-consuming anticipation: was I really able to speak - let alone think - of anything else in the days leading up to the release of a new book? In the days following? I miss opening the book for the first time, balancing the weight of so many pages in my hands, listening to the binding creak. I miss the first reading, when everything is new and shocking and horrifying and thrilling and nothing short of glorious. I miss the first reread, when you notice all the little details that slipped by before, either in your haste or because it relates to the climax you're already aware of this time. I miss closing the book and being unable to sort out my feelings: joy, for the story just finished; sadness, for the fictional lives lost; frustration, at the book's swift and inevitable end; and anticipation once again, knowing there was more to come.
Until there wasn't.
What I wouldn't give for another riddle, another countdown clock, another midnight party in a bookstore surrounded by hundreds of people who know exactly how you're feeling.
I do not miss Harry Potter, the story, the man. I just miss everything else.
There's nothing to miss. I'm free to step into a class at Hogwarts or make the trip into Hogsmeade or have dinner at the Burrow anytime I want. I've seen numerous posts and graphics on the internet that reiterate this bold truth: Harry Potter will be with us always. We grew up with these books; now we will grow old with these books. Age and time will have no effect on how we feel about this series. I don't miss Harry Potter because it will never leave me and I will never abandon it.
I miss everything else.
I miss not knowing the next book title, who the next Defense Against the Dark Arts professor will be, how Harry will escape the Dursleys. I miss the little riddles on Rowling's website to learn the release date and the desktop countdowns downloaded from Mugglenet that told me exactly how many weeks, days, hours, minutes I had to wait until the next book arrived. I actually miss the waiting and the way time seemed to stretch from that initial announcement until the book's arrival so it felt like we'd been waiting all our lives. I miss the anticipation and the over-the-top excitement, heretofore unrivaled by any other event in my life. That all-consuming anticipation: was I really able to speak - let alone think - of anything else in the days leading up to the release of a new book? In the days following? I miss opening the book for the first time, balancing the weight of so many pages in my hands, listening to the binding creak. I miss the first reading, when everything is new and shocking and horrifying and thrilling and nothing short of glorious. I miss the first reread, when you notice all the little details that slipped by before, either in your haste or because it relates to the climax you're already aware of this time. I miss closing the book and being unable to sort out my feelings: joy, for the story just finished; sadness, for the fictional lives lost; frustration, at the book's swift and inevitable end; and anticipation once again, knowing there was more to come.
Until there wasn't.
What I wouldn't give for another riddle, another countdown clock, another midnight party in a bookstore surrounded by hundreds of people who know exactly how you're feeling.
I do not miss Harry Potter, the story, the man. I just miss everything else.