Best smile, most likely to succeed, most school spirit. These are examples of the senior superlatives one would expect to find leafing through the pages of an old high school year book; the simple categories that classmates see fit to place their peers in as they prepare to graduate. But my high school was no ordinary high school, and my friends were no ordinary friends. Consequentially, I was given no ordinary senior superlative. Much to my delight, I was crowned “most likely to marry a fictional character”. I truly can’t argue with my classmates; I doubt I could have chosen a better superlative myself. Proof of this fact is all around me. Just this past weekend, I despaired along with several of my friends as we simultaneously watched the brilliant David Tennant regenerate into the eleventh Doctor during his final episode of the long-running British show, Dr. Who. Fortunately, my wonderful friend Rosetta and I realized how difficult it would be to watch such a painful episode alone, and we overcame our shock and outrage together in order to comfort each other as the tears ran unwillingly down our cheeks at the end of the night. Almost instantly, the memories of similar moments in my life flashed before my eyes and I realized just how dependent on fiction I have become. I find it both an alarming and intriguing priority in my life, and feel compelled to explore my continued obsessive love affair with all things fictional.
Each summer when I was in grade school, I placed a yearly bet with my father. Together, we would create a well balanced list of around 20 well sized books comprised mostly of classic literature (for every two classics I could pick something “lighter”). If I completed the list by the end of the summer, he would bestow upon me a $100 reward. It was his creative attempt at ensuring that I became an avid reader. I think we both secretly knew the bet was pointless. Early in my childhood I became addicted to the feel of a book in my hands, the worlds I could be taken to by the words of an author, and the smell of the old leather Smithsonian Institute bookmark I used to use (the scent still lingers in the pages of my copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. I now fondly refer to it as my “childhood Harry Potter Series smell”). By the end of 7th grade I had earned myself the nickname of “Hermione” after being seen reading the thousand page plus unabridged version of Les Miserables for fun. I suppose that I do owe this love of the classics to my father. It’s more than likely that without his encouragement and constant gifting of books like The Scarlet Pimpernel and Great Expectations, I’d be one of those teen girls I can’t help but judge. Those girls who learn their vocabulary and life lessons from series like Gossip Girls, those girls I could never bring myself to befriend in high school.
But this is not where my dependence on fiction lies. It cannot, for many of my friends are avid readers, buying books every chance they get, just as I do (working at Barnes & Noble was far more dangerous to my bank account than I could have ever imagined). No, my love of reading is not what makes me unique. Its source must, therefore, lie in my obsessive nature.
Anyone who knows me, even if only as an acquaintance, would most likely tell you that I am incapable of merely “liking” anything. I must instead allow my love of an idea, person, book series etc. to completely control my psyche. These are not fleeting obsessions that are here today and gone tomorrow; I chose my subjects of interest with careful consideration. I can list them on one hand: Jane Austen, Pirates of the Caribbean, Alan Rickman and his many films, and the Harry Potter franchise. I acknowledge these may seem to be common obsessions, but can you honestly tell me you’ve met someone who owns a Pirates of the Caribbean themed car, has an entire bookshelf filled with various versions of Jane Austen novels and adaptations, ordered an out of print Rickman film from Spain since it was unavailable in the US, or passed notes with her friends in class pretending to write as characters from Harry Potter? I doubt it. But what do these obsessions get me besides stares from strangers who overhear my eccentric conversations, obstacles to my personal financial goals, and fear from my parents that I may actually be insane? My answer is simple. An immersion in the worlds of these obsessions has instilled in me a yearning for a life far more exciting than the one I lead.
Don’t get me wrong, I realize that I’ve had a rather exciting life. I’ve been blessed to be able to call some of the most epic people I’ve ever met my friends (just ask the employees at On the Border). I’ve had the opportunity to perform in Europe with Chester County Voices Abroad for the past four years (with my own fan club), and I had the time of my life in London for four months last year (getting a hug from James McAvoy was definitely a highlight). My adolescence has been far from ordinary, but my love of fiction, I fear, has ruined me forever.
While I remain grounded in the reality and practicality, putting school and work at the forefront of my mind when necessary, I can’t help but think that I have developed some unrealistic beliefs about life and love. My adoration for Jane Austen’s most beloved male heroes such as Mr. Darcy and Colonel Brandon has raised the standards that I expect in a relationship. I don’t expect someone to walk out of a field surrounded by mist to come and sweep me off my feet, but I expect a level of respect and chivalry that seems to be forgotten in today’s society. I refuse to reduce myself to the appearance and behavior that “men” of my generation seem to expect. I will never lower these standards in order to satisfy those who place an emphasis on being in a relationship, who fear being alone. I will not change my beliefs in order to get a boyfriend. My own standards can be discouraging as I observe my prospects at Villanova (perhaps this explains my fascination with older men). In fiction however, I can find such men of character and substance that I desire without leaving the comforts of my room. In this way, I have become dependent on Ms. Austen to believe that great men like those in her novels still exist, and that one day, if I’m lucky enough, I’ll find myself one. Of course, I assume it doesn’t help my case that I expect anyone who seeks a relationship with me to hold an interest in or, at least, accept my obsessions. I doubt a relationship with me could work if a guy were to feel threatened each time I make an inappropriate comment or sigh as Alan Rickman comes on screen in a film. Regardless, my love of fiction has begun to spill over into my everyday life, and while it may make me unique or looked down upon in today’s world, I’d like to think that I’m a better, stronger, and more mature person because of it.
But what of the obsessions that I cannot possibly hope to translate into real life? For you, dear reader, I have a name; a name that has practically defined my existence since the fourth grade. That name is Harry Potter. I’ll never forget when I first read of the boy wizard and the adventures and challenges he shared with his friends. I was enthralled with the world J.K Rowling created from the very first chapter. Her creativity astounded me, as I read of the spells, sports, and items her imagination invented. I woke up every morning hoping to receive my letter from Hogwarts that would tell me that I was a witch and going away to school in Scotland. I vowed to know everything I could about the series, and as far as I know, I’ve lived up to my promise. Despite all of this wonder and awe and magic, the most impressive aspect of the world of Harry Potter for me is the character development that Rowling has expertly woven throughout her seven inspired books. From the very beginning the character of Severus Snape stole my heart, and I’ve still never heard the end of it from my friends and family (“you would love a minor character” “he’s old and a jerk” “he has greasy hair!” “he hates Harry!” “HE KILLED DUMBLEDORE!”). Despite their jokes and accusations, I had such a feeling of trust in his character that I’d scarcely had in anyone else in my life. This, in and of itself, is interesting considering my own severe real-life trust issues. I can only guess as to why I seem to attach myself so strongly to fictional characters like Severus. Perhaps I find it easier to trust characters in a novel, since a betrayal by a beloved character is just as fictional as they are. However, such betrayals rarely occur (I suppose I’m a good judge of character) and the opposite effect happens. The characters I love have, within their intricately woven plot lines, lived up to my expectations, and have earned my trust. Maybe it is for this reason, that I become so helplessly devoted to these characters, sobbing as I read of their deaths and hardships. Rowling’s development of Snape has given me something that is rare to find today, a trustworthy person completely motivated by love. Severus is not perfect, on the contrary he is severely flawed. But what makes him different is the acceptance his flaws and mistakes and the manner in which he spends the rest of his life atoning for them. His death is an unjust one, tragic yet disturbingly beautiful and one of the hardest scenes of literature I’ve ever had to read.
It is in my readings and rereading of the Potter series that I have realized I want my life to be an epic novel. I somehow have taught myself to expect that magnificent adventures will present themselves to me, and my friends and I will tackle them just as Ron, Hermione, and Harry tackled the troll in their first year at school. The impossibility of this can sometimes be depressing, and so I’ve resorted to writing my own stories, transforming characters into who I want them to be, giving them opportunities in which to prove their worth, and forming the kinds of relationships I dream of in my imagination. I’ve become one of those midnight writers, who sit up at night with the glow from a laptop screen as their only source of light. When my life doesn’t go the way I planned, I write. I create the adventure, the love, the order that I crave and can’t achieve. It’s a wonderful feeling. Some people do drugs, some people get smashed, while I read and write to calm the stress of my worries and cares. And suddenly, there it is; the source of my dependence on the fiction created by the written word. How ironic that the very obsessions that some may call me crazy for are the same things that keep me sane. Well fine, call me crazy, I’ll just sit here in my Hogwarts robes casting spells without you and loving every moment of it.
“Fiction is love and hate and agreement and conflict and common adventure, not lonely musings on have-beens and might-have-beens.” (A.B Guthrie, Jr.)
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