Why I re-read Harry Potter (again)

I remember being curled on the couch when I was 16 with the third Harry Potter book (my favorite until the seventh book came out, usurping it’s position.) I was laughing about something. My dad, sitting in the living room with me, said “you’ve read that book a million times, and it still makes you giggle.”

I don’t think I actually read them a million times, although I lost count. By the end of my high school career, it was a lot of times. I know I had read the first one at least ten times, and the rest a few times less.

After the seventh book came out, I tried to re-read it, but found that it was an enormous struggle. I love that book, but the emotional roller-coaster ride is enough to leave one dizzy. I would read bits and pieces after it came out, but I never faced the whole thing again.

As my college years went on, I left my Harry Potter books pristine and untouched in the box they came in.As an English major, there were a lot of other readings that came first. Ocassionally, before a movie release, I would revisit points of the books. And I have a talent for being able to quote obscure bits of Potter knowledge and find the exact chapter and page referencing said knowledge in under two minutes (yes, I have actually asked people to time me).

 

But it has been nine years, almost an entire decade, since I read the entire series.

If you’re like me, you know that nine years is too long of a time to wait to re-visit your favorite fictional place. At the beginning of April, as I approached the birthday that marks a quarter of a century, I found that I was yearning to start from the beginning and tear my way through them, the way I used to nine years ago.

It was as a fufilling experience as it ever was. Sure enough, I laughed out loud, I cried real tears, and several times I spoke out loud to the characters on the page (I am a very interactive reader.)

Now, I’m at a strange time in my life. When you start reaching adult ages, you have to start doing more and more adult things. I’m starting to re-evaluate my life, trying to think of ways I might better myself, forming vague plans for my future, working. And in my adult years, I needed to go somewhere that consistently makes me happy. A place where the characters are like friends.

When I was in London, my friend and I went to see the Harry Potter set, and it was an incredible experience. If you haven’t been there, spoilers ahead. The last room holds the scale model that was used to film Hogwarts. It’s huge and beautiful and a truly magical experience which I highly recommend. As we circled it, I remember tearing up. There was one word that kept coming to mind.

Just as Harry would say, Hogwarts is home. And sometimes we all just need to go home.

A special Thank You

I want to take some time today to talk about a very special person in my life who has influenced me in so many ways.

I am so lucky to have gotten the Mom that I did. My nature loving, flower-child mother raised me to be the person I am today.

One thing that I am particularly grateful to her for is my love of the written word.

My mother would read to my sister and I every night, from the time we were in our cribs, until I was well into my pre-teen years. She would bring us to the book fairs and let us take home a new book we would read together. It was my grandmother who first put a Harry Potter book in my hands, but it is my mother’s voice that brought so many of my favorite characters to life. She was the one who discovered A Series of Unfortunate Events. She opened up the Wardrobe door to Narnia for us, and flew us across the universe with A Wrinkle in Time.

It wasn’t just my passion for reading that she helped me cultivate. When I wrote my first poem in the third grade, I was so excited. It was such a rush. People read it and said that it was good and I should keep working on it. My mom brought me to the store and bought me half a dozen tiny notebooks that I could keep with me and jot poems in.

I’ve long since given up poetry, but as I grew older, the notebooks grew larger, and I was constantly writing stories; I would play with my sister and imagine new lives for us, then write our imaginary adventures later. I filled blank notebooks with childhood stories, and all the while, my Mother supported me. From the time I was eleven, she has been saying the I should write a book. It is because of her support that I write.

I can never give her enough thanks for the support and influence she’s given me, making me the person I am today. Every day I see more of her in myself, and I am so grateful for that. Because if I grow up to be like my Mom, then I’ve grown up to be a really amazing person.

Happy Mother’s day to all those mothers reading this, and a special Happy Mother’s Day to my Mom. I love you, you are amazing.

What’s up with Horcruxes?

I have been thinking about horcruxes.

Imagine, for a moment, that you were in Voldemort’s shoes. Imagine that you ripped your soul apart at sixteen, stuffed it into an inaminate object, and then went about your life.

Now imagine what you were like a sixteen. I imagine that many people feel the way I do: that as years the years have passed, I have changed. A person grows and learns as they get older. When I think of sixteen year old me, I see a totally different person.

Let’s imagine a world where the manifestation of Voldemort’s soul had succeeded in Chamber of Secrets. Would that piece of Voldemort’s soul, the broody, smooth-talking head boy, be the one who comes back? What would happen to the older Voldemort who lived on the back of Quirrel’s head and built himself a new body? Does he simply become dormant? Or does he continue trying to make himself a body? Could there have been two Voldemorts running around?

All of this has been running around in my head like wildfire for the past couple of days. But I feel like the most important things is: How would that manifestation of Voldemort even know who he was? He would only know about his own actions second-hand. Would he try to repeat those actions?

I think that the answer is probably yes.

But all this would explain why horcruxes were a sort of forbidden magic. The dark magic no one wants to touch. We are not meant to leave mementos of ourselves as we were: we are meant to grow.

It is the age-old question; is immortality worth the price?

The immortality question is a biggie. It’s been asked over and over. There is a reason there have been a bajillion vampire books written. And there’s a reason that The Picture of Dorian Gray and Frankenstein are classics. When people seek to achieve that which wasn’t meant for them, they suffer consequences.

The reason that Harry conquers in the final battle is because he does not fear death.  Now, we all fear death a little, but Voldemort’s fear of it was too great. By leaving pieces of himself behind, he ruined himself; he couldn’t learn and grow the way his adversary could. He always feared death, from the time he was a sixteen-year-old to the day his own curse re-bounded (for the second time). His ultimate demise was his own doing.

I’ve been thinking about all of this for a few days now. And that’s one of the reasons I love the series. There are so many intricate little details that make us wonder. Rowling spun a tale that started out as nothing more than a children’s story, and yet today, almost two decades after The Sorcerer’s Stone was released, I’m left pondering the consequences of immortality. Harry Potter is no mere children’s series. It is a classic.

An Insufficient Interpretation

I have to get something off my chest: I am sick of over-hyped books.

Recently I read “Cinder,” which I’d heard such incredible things about, and found it to be nothing more than okay.

This month, I felt inclined to check out “Dorothy Must Die” by Danielle Paige. This book has been all over my Instagram feed like a quickly spreading virus. I loved the cover, and thought the synopsis sounded interesting.

Here’s the truth buried beneath the eye-capturing font and pulse pounding synopsis: “Dorothy Must Die” is cliche and completely uninteresting. The story focuses on Amy Gumm, a rebel without a cause, and not the good kind. She literally has no cause other than the one she is dragged into by the wicked witches of Oz. She hates her mom, then feels guilty about hating her mom, and this becomes a never-ending cycle of “who is the antagonist here?” She is pushed along her journey, rather than having any drive of her own.

Then, of course, there is the ever-present hetero romance. She has heart eyes for every boy she meets, despite having much bigger problems. Romance is a common complaint from me when it comes to YA novels. When done right, I do enjoy a good love story. But a girl fawning over a guy for no reason other than that he is hot… frankly, it makes me gag a little.

I love Oz, and I especially enjoy Gregory Macguire’s re-imagining of Oz. In Macguire’s Oz, the line between good and wicked is blurry. Rather than trying to explore gray areas and the blurry line, Paige simply makes the good guys the bad guys. She takes beloved childhood characters and turns them into horrifying caricatures. The Wicked are the good guys, the good guys are wicked.

Perhaps it’s unfair of me to compare a modern classic to Paige’s novel for teens, but I almost felt cheated as I read this book. I felt like a story I loved had been violated by poor writing.

I haven’t even finished Dorothy Must Die, and I don’t know that I will. Every time I pick it up it makes me groan.

Don’t make the same mistake I did. It’s a good looking book, certainly, but it’s not worth the money, or the trouble.

A modern mystery

I love stories. I read voraciously, and binge watch Netflix. Few people know that I also have a weak spot for podcasts.

Radio dramas have made a comeback in recent years in the form of podcasts; the very popular Welcome To Night Vale started in 2012 and has gained popularity ever since. Those following WTNV are bound to, like me, branch out to other podcasts. I have listened to a variety of podcasts, and gotten very addicted to several ongoing stories.

Today, though, I’m here to talk about a specific podcast. Tanis.

Tanis is produced by Pacific Northwest Stories, and is the convoluted journey of Nic Silver, PNWS producer. Nic is obsessed with a mystery: the mystery of Tanis. Tanis is set up as a sort of place with a foggy history. A place, or thing, that moves around and influences the area it’s in. As Nic brings himself and his listeners closer to finding Tanis, he sprinkles in horrific stories of serial killers, deadly hotels, and people who went insane. He posits that the sometimes bloody history of the Pacific Northwest was influenced by Tanis.

However, there is the idea that those “worthy” of Tanis can reap it’s rewards. Nicholas Flamel comes into the story at one point, and Nic hypothesizes that Tanis is a sort of fountain of youth.

As Nic tries to unravel the mystery of Tanis, his new-found partner in crime, Meerkatnip (a fake name, obviously; no other name is revealed throughout the story besides MK), tries to unravel internet mysteries. Usually a whiz with computers, she becomes frustrated by ghosts (people who don’t exist online) and a numerical sequence.

His search for Tanis brings Nic into government conspiracies, and leads him to a brainwashing cult. He is threatened and drugged, and yet, admirably, he continues his search for answers. He is driven on by the idea of one last mystery in the world.

Early on, Alex Reagan, host of The Black Tapes Podcast (another podcast I am hopelessly addicted to) begins reading journal entries, presumably written by someone on their way to Tanis. There is an element of cosmic horror to the entire podcast, but the horrors really come to life in these journal entries. The narrator loses track of who they are, and sees horrible things, including trees that bleed, impenetrable darkness during the day, and something they refer to as “the blur,” a sort of force that makes them forget who they are and where they are. These narrations, underscored by slow, dissonant chords, are undoubtedly one of the best parts of the show, especially for someone who loves their horror.

The season finale, uploaded last Wednesday, was as exciting and creepy as I’d come to expect from this fantastic podcast. Nic and his producers gave us listeners a wild, mind-bending plot-twist and set up the story for what will assuredly be a fantastic second season. Now comes the frustrating part of listening to a podcast: the waiting.

If you don’t think podcasts are your thing, it’s time to re-think. Try Tanis out, I guarantee you will be hooked.

A Modern Classic

I love the theatre. I love being onstage, I love being offstage, I love watching. I love the soft hum of fresnels coming to life. I love the clink of stage rapiers.

One of the things I love the most is watching a play come to life. It is amazing to see an entire progression from the words on the page to the actual production. One sees it best from the seat of Stage Manager; I was a stage manager for two shows while I was in college, a both times I had excellent experiences.

I was lucky enough to take part in watching a show come to life again these past two months, this time as an assistant stage manager for CSC’s production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s journey is a confusing one at many times. And as the two title charcters try to find out the source of Hamlet’s madness, they do so with much witty, though disorienting banter.

One thing that actually stuck with me after four years of theatre classes is that theatre  is supposed to make an impression on the audience. A good play should make the audience walk away having learned something, felt something, been given any sort of impression that makes them really think. This absurd, existential piece makes it’s actors and viewers ruminate on death and fate. Do we really have any sort of choice? Or is our compass always pointing in one direction?

I can’t imagine a pair to better take on the challenge of Ros and Guil than the two cast in this recent production: Wacey Gallegos and Molly Thornton. Gallegos had a sort of childlike curiosity. He is always delightfully playful onstage, and always full bodied, truly making use of “suiting the action to the word,” as Bill put it.  Thornton, meanwhile, was the ever staunch leader of the two, and consistently full of questions.  Together, the two made the most of every confusing moment, and hilarity ensued despite the tragic ending the two face. (This isn’t a spoiler, let’s look at the title again.)

Just as important to the show as Ros and Guil’s ruminations on fate, choice, and death, is the Player and his merry band of tragedians. The Player, played by Patrick Bergin is almost a shadow, haunting them, leading them to their inevitable fate. Bergin played the mostly benevolent and often jolly player, which just barely covers his more sinister role.

Tom Stoppard, keeping in the tradition of Hamlet, puts on a play within a play. The players put on “The Murder of Gonzago,” which is basically Hamlet in miniature, showing the audience and those onstage that once something is written, it must play itself out. “Things have gone about as far as they can go when things have got about as bad as they reasonably can get,” points out the player.

This show is as meta as they come. One of the most exciting moments is when Rosencrantz leaps from his seats and runs across the room screaming “Fire!” When Guil jumps up ready to run, Ros smiles at her, straightens his jacket and says gleefully, “Nothing! I was just demonstrating the misuse of free speech.” He looks out at the audience, sniffs importantly, and says “Not a move. They ought to burn to death in their shoes.” It is the first and only time Ros or Guil makes any note of the audience. And it serves to remind the audience that they are outside observers, while, at the same time, they have been caught up in the action, the same way the two title characters have.

One of my favorite teachers would always ask while we read Shakespeare: “Have you ever read the play of your life?”

Of course we haven’t and Ros and Guil hadn’t either. “We’ll know better next time,” says Guil, though, of course they won’t. They are forever locked into the already written events of their 95 page lives.

Under the patient tutelage of director, Derek Phelps, who encouraged his actors to play with every moment, the show became quite a magical experience.

I was so lucky to get to see this incredibly weird, meta, tragicomedy come to life. I can’t thank my director or my Stage Manager, Jessica Steffen-Scheppers enough for letting me be a part of it.

If you live in Chadron and you didn’t come see the show, shame on you. If you have the opportunity to see it somewhere down the line, definitely do. This one is called a modern classic for a reason.

 

Some reflections on NaNoWriMo

It was a long month, November. For thirty days, I tried to cut back my social media, netflix, reading, and social time, in order to write a novel.

This was my fourth year attempting NaNoWriMo, and my first year actually succeeding. I wrote 50,485 words of a novel. I would not call it finished, by any stretch of the imagination. Right now, it is a bunch of different word documents that need to be tied together. But I have a beginning,  a middle, most of an end. It is, in my honest opinion, a solid backbone for a good book. One that I intend to finish.

This past month has not only been successful in that I finished writing over 50,000 words, but that it taught me so much. I know what time of day I write the most words (morning, right after I wake up). I know how much coffee I have to drink to be successful at anything (2 cups in the morning, and a cup in the afternoon).

I learned that being a writer is solitary work. I cut back on the time I spent with friends to put my word count first. I retreated to my room for days at a time, leaving only for food. I missed parties and events. I plugged into loud music and sat quietly in my little corner for hours.

It’s nice, at times to be solitary. But sometimes, it can be lonely.

Of course, I was having a lot of fun in my fictional world. But I found it’s also good to set aside time for friends and family. I don’t want the voices inside my head to be my only friends.

Finally, this month I learned that my talent is worth something.

I spend a lot of time worrying that I did the wrong thing by not choosing a stable job. I chose, like so many others of my generation, to do something I was passionate about, but not something that pays a lot of money.

Sometimes, I worry that I’ll never finish writing anything, never amount to anything more than a diner waitress.

But I finished NaNoWriMo. For the first time ever. That means a lot. November showed me that I shouldn’t worry about success, I should just do what I love. I love to write. So I will keep on doing it in the solitary of my room.

I have been writing since I can remember. When I was little, my wonderful mother would buy me piles of notebooks, which I would fill with stories and poems. I’ve thought about my childhood and background as a writer a lot this past month. I’ve had so much support from family and teachers and friends over the years. When I felt like I might not finish, I’ve thought of the times that people have cheered me on. They deserve a lot of thanks. 

And of course, I want to thank the folks over at nano headquarters for cheering me on as well.

This month was an outstanding exercise and a journey in self-discovery. I cannot wait to finish, re-read, and revise my novel.

It was a long month, but it was totally worth it.

A legend that still holds us captive

London is steeped in legend and myth. From King Arthur to Robin Hood, myths have been spread and talked about so much that they’ve become reality. One of London’s mysteries is that of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

I finished reading “Sweeney Todd: The Graphic Novel” this weekend. The graphic novel was adapted from Thomas Peckett Prest’s penny dreadful serial “A String of Pearls.”

The art in this novel was gorgeous. Any pages with Todd were bordered in black, where other characters stories were bordered in white, or other light colors. This distinction, though minor, really added to the story. There was also minimal violence shown in the pages, a plus for younger readers, who seem to be the books intended audience.

That’s not to say the book isn’t scary. The original is very different from Steven Sondheim’s musical and Tim Burton’s screen adaptation, the story that I am familiar with. Todd was not originally the sympathetic anti-hero that these adaptations paint him as. He kills for selfish reasons, namely money, and, twice, for a string of pearls. Often, his face is painted in shadows as he looms over his victims.

Even more scary is Mrs. Lovett, the owner of a meat pie shop and his partner in crime, who locks men in the basement to make the pies. They are only to eat the pies, and when they grow tired of their job, she has Todd “polish them off.” There is a never ending string of cooks who end up in the very pies that they were baking.

Yep. Creepy.

The book includes a helpful afterword addressing the legend of Sweeney Todd. Prest’s periodical was not the only story of a killer barber; Todd was written about in The Newgate Calendar, which published gripping tales of criminals. However, no official records of a trial exist, leading many to believe that the story in The Newgate Calendar was a fabrication.

Whether fact or legend, Sweeney Todd’s story is captivating. Brought to life in vivid color, this graphic novel is the best way I can think of to relive the legend of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

Why Dexter has me hooked

I didn’t think I could ever get so attached to a serial killer. I had a brief tryst with Hannibal a few years ago when the television series was popular, but, while other fans seemed to love the character Hannibal as though he was some tragic hero, I hated him. Eventually, I stopped watching. The gore became a little too much for me and my delicate sensibilities.

When my sister told me she though I would like Dexter, I scoffed. In fact, through the first season, I was doubtful. I could see why my sister, a psychology major interested in forensics, would like the show. Me, however? I couldn’t see myself getting attached to this particular story.

How very wrong I was.

I watched the last half of season 2 in a single afternoon, and after that have tried to squeeze in at least one episode a day, sometimes averaging at three or four episodes a day.

So. What’s up with Dexter? That’s the key question, the reason I keep watching. He is a self-professed monster. He hunts people as a hobby. He is one scary dude when he gets angry. I jump when he shows his “dark passenger.” But he is, strangely, the hero of the story. His sardonic humor certainly helps. Without his dry remarks to himself, the story would be a twisted one. Which, to be fair, it already kind of is.

There is something darkly pleasing in the way that crime scenes get steadily more creative. Despite the fact that most of the bad-guys are, in fact, disgusting monsters, it is interesting to get a peek into their head.

Right now, I am working my way through Season Six, the season of “the doomsday killers” probably the most gruesomely creative serial killer dynamic duo the show’s ever seen. So far, this is my second favorite season only behind the fast paced, heart-pounding season four; the season of the Trinity killer. This is because of the heart-pounding tableaus that DDK paints for his audience; namely Miami Metro Homicide. After a girl was killed with a trip wire and hung up on a cross to look like an angel, my housemate, who was in the room at the time said “Well, that was horrible, but actually kind of aesthetically pleasing.” I had to agree. “Yeah, they’re killing it,” was my response.

Gruesome, yet aesthetically pleasing is perhaps the best way to describe the show. Why is the audience not scared of Dexter when he raises his knife? Because they are rooting for Dexter to win. There is something pleasing in how he hurts those who have hurt others. They are the monsters, not him.

And no one cares about aesthetic more than Dexter, who sets up his “kill rooms” with care. This season, he killed a high school jock on a scoreboard. Just as the bad guy’s creativity grows, so does Dexter’s. It makes one want to continue watching with vigor. What will they come up with next? And how will Dexter take them down? Because if there is anything 5 seasons have taught me, it’s that somehow, he always wins. Or kind of wins.

Even though I didn’t think I’d love it, I am watching and will continue watching with vigor.

Why I made up my own 10 week study of horror fiction

I said to myself recently “I should read more horror fiction.” So, because I am, at heart, always a student, I whipped up a syllabus and reading list for myself. Over the next couple months, I will be taking an adventure through horror novels, from Gothic 18th century up to the “Golden age” of horror, the 1970s. And I hope to write about my journey on this blog.

People keep asking me why I would do this. “You won’t gain any actual credits with it, will you?” People keep saying to me. My only answer is that I am doing it for the fun of it. I want to read more, might as well focus my energies the same way I practiced it for years: by giving myself deadlines.

I hope to not only read more, but write more because of this excercise. I certainly hope that I will start updating my blog once a week.

So let’s start with the basics: What is horror fiction? Horror.org says that the definition of horror is “a painful and intense fear, dread, or dismay.” “It stands to reason, then that horror fiction is fiction that elicits that emotion in readers.”

I love my fiction eliciting emotion in me. That’s what makes reading fun.

Interestingly, I hate watching horror, but love reading it. When it’s got you on the edge of your seat, that’s when you know your having fun with a book. And nothing gets me to jump to the edge of my seat faster than a good scare.

This, in a nutshell, is why I’ve created this study. I want to learn all about the stories that have kept readers on their seats through the centuries. Because it will be a lot of fun.