Addictive reading

I just finished reading the final Harry Potter.

I know, I know, I’m a writer — I should be reading intelligent, “grown-up” fiction. But Jeez Louise, was it exciting!

Death Eaters! Dementors! Powerful wands! Body-bind curses!

We’re talking serious stuff here. Dangerous stuff.

And yes, there were moments during the three-week reading of this monster of a book where I almost found myself reaching for my wand. Wondering if I could magic away a blister, for example, or disapparate instead of waiting to board my flight. Non-Harry Potter fans may be a bit confused by all this jargon I’m dropping, but one has to wonder if there are any non-Harry Potter fans left in this world. Hasn’t everyone read at least one of the seven?

Oh, I’m no blind, gormless fan. I recognise that there are flaws in the work, that she started out writing children’s books and ended up writing what borders on horror; that no sane parent would let their children read this last instalment.

It is evil, in parts. Truly evil. No child grows up that fast in seven years.

There are flaws, yes. The main one, as far as I’m concerned, is that JK Rowling got lost along the way. The path started with chocolate frogs that leapt away unless you ate them really fast, and every-flavour jelly beans (including vomit and asparagus). It ended with splitting your soul into seven parts, and leaving a half-formed non-human baby crying on the floor of a not-quite-afterlife, unable to be helped by anyone.

I’m a grown-up (kind of) and I’m disturbed by that.

She started writing a different story, around the fourth instalment, and nobody told her to save that for later on. I suppose that whole having-to-save-the-world-from-ultimate-evil plot line got in the way.

That said, I loved it. I was hooked. I feel a little sad and lost now that it’s over. Relieved, yes, but a little sad.

There is something so rare and wonderful about a book that literally will not let you out of its grasp.

Addictive reading. My favourite drug.