Dog-Eared: The Art and Magic of Letting Go

I have two children. My son, Avery, will be four in September; my daughter, Aurora, will be one in December. Two years before my son was born, his maternal grandparents bought the first four volumes of the Harry Potter series. They have continued buying the books, and have also purchased a chest in which to keep the books.

Even before the kids were born, or even possibilities, they had Harry Potter books waiting for them.

“Everyone seems to be reading these books. We want your kids to have them, too,” grandmother (why is it always grandmother in these types of stories?) said. And I said, OK, and the kids’ mother said, OK, and we didn’t say that we already had the books, or that I have been reading them since 1998 (I’ll be dating myself to say that the first two books in the series were the first two things I bought from an online retailer, Amazon, of course).

Book three I bought at a Barnes & Noble in Silverdale, Washington. And then the midnight release parties started.

Book four, a Barnes & Noble in Seattle. My boss at the time had two daughters, one of which was old enough to read the books. I bought a copy for her, dropped it off on their doorstep, and left behind some feathers as if an owl had delivered the book. I stayed up until I finished the book.

Book five, a Borders in Peabody, Massachusetts. I had spent the evening at the Spirit of ’76 Bookstore in Marblehead, on assignment for a newspaper. More than 100 kids and their parents (reluctant, in some cases) stood in line, and the two cashiers at the store stayed until after 2 a.m. to make sure everyone in Marblehead who wanted the book could get it. I stayed up until I finished the book, partly for myself, and partly for the newspaper, which wanted a review online as soon as possible.

Book six, a Barnes & Noble in Saugus, Massachusetts. Not even at midnight. The next day, in the afternoon, and I read the book across three days. Blame having a kid, or blame my waning interest in the series.

Book seven, a Borders in Boston (RIP, unfortunately), again at midnight. The store was giving out posters, and the book was the last one, so why not. I stayed up all night, but couldn’t finish the book in one sitting. I finished it the next day, though, and then I re-read it, not because I found it particularly in need of a second read, but because I figured I would never read the books again, at least to myself, so why not re-read the last book again.

Maybe I wasn’t the target audience for the book. But, I’m not sure a target audience exists for the Harry Potter books. Sure, at first a target audience existed – kids, 8-12, boys preferably. J.K. Rowling has been credited with encouraging boys to read (along with girls, adults, senior citizens, and I’m sure some shape-shifting animals), but along the way (OK, somewhere between books three and four), the books became this worldwide phenomenon. For months after the seventh book’s release, I saw adults on the subway reading the book (I had to exercise massive self control in not just muttering loud enough for said reader to hear just what was to come).

And the reason I’m not sure a target audience exists for the Harry Potter books is because I’m not heartbroken over the end of the series, not the books, and not the films. I’ve seen the films (though after the third movie, I stopped going to the movie theater to see the films), and I’m even going to see the eighth film at midnight, but the books are just books, albeit books that certainly belong on the same shelf as The Lord of the Rings, or the Chronicles of Narnia, or even the Wizard of Oz books.

Have I ever loved Harry Potter? No, I don’t think I have. Do I regret reading the books? Not at all. And will I read the books to my children? Certainly. But my kids will have a different a relationship with Harry. The series is done. There will be no waiting for a year to get the next volume. If my son decides to spend a summer vacation reading the books back-to-back, he can. He won’t have to find something else to occupy his attention until the next Harry Potter comes out.

And that’s my biggest problem with the series.

In the wake of its success, imitation after imitation has been publicized as the next Harry Potter, and while some of these series certainly have been enjoyable (looking at you, Mr. Snickett), nothing seems to have actually filled the void. Maybe once the film of The Hunger Games comes out, that trilogy will capture a bigger audience, but, really, the third book was such a disappointment that I can’t imagine re-reading that series, not even to my children.

But where’s the next Harry Potter?

Maybe there won’t be a next Harry Potter, and I think that that’s OK. We don’t need another Harry Potter. He’s had his time. He lived. He grew up. He married his best friend’s sister. He defeated the big bad (and we’re talking a big bad that even Buffy and her Scoobies may have had difficulty defeating; can you see Xander really giving up the Mirror of Erised, or Anya making her way out of Gringotts without something shoved down her pants?). And he grew up. Say goodnight, Harry.

I’m not a Harry hater. Not really. I took in the Harry Potter exhibition during its stint at the Museum of Science in Boston.

And when I was in England in 2002, I managed to catch an exhibition of some of Rowling’s papers, including some of the first pages she wrote about Harry. And I’m sure I’ll enjoy the movie.

But enough is enough. He’s been around nearly 15 years. He’s grown up. We’ve grown up. You’ve grown up. And future generations will grow up knowing him and his friends and their adventures. But let him go. Let him disappear into a future that only Rowling knows, and hopefully decides to keep to herself.