I remember picking up T.A. Barron’s The Lost Years of Merlin from a shelf in my third grad teacher’s class and being unable to put it down until I finished the whole six-book series. It’s not often that I see those particular books around anymore, and it’s also not often that I feel so inspired to consume writing as if I was a starving animal.
I wonder what happened? I imagine the answer is close to “It must be me” since I do not believe that the nature of reading has changed all that much. But still…there’s a part of my that wants an easy answer that doesn’t feel so blame-like.
Right now, I’m working on the Harry Potter series. Not overly novel (hah), I know, and yet I never finished the series when I was a kid. By the time The Order of the Phoenix was published, I was moving on to different forms of epic fantasy and didn’t want to read another book about how Harry “saves the day.” Now halfway through that same book, I realize that I was wrong, and I regret that I did not consume this particular series during its time.
The good news is that Rowling’s work will never really age too poorly. I think in many ways, this series will always be relevant and interesting.
The other good news is that I’ve got a glimmer of that spark again: the spark that used to shine bright and lead me to every book I could possibly get my hands on before I’d finished the one I was working on. That’s a good feeling. Can’t wait to start hoarding books again…