It was 2006 when I last read anything worth a rave or rant.
School was my biggest motivation to read, hugely because my classes used my favorite books as its references; ergo, I enjoyed the assigned readings. But, because I no longer had assignments, I didn’t feel the need to flip through any book anymore.
The following year, I began my work with a newspaper company. The broadsheet gave me my daily fix of information about local, national, and international current events. That replaced books for the next three years.
While I would be reminded of my love of reading books by seeing high school and college kids and other yuppies reading on trains, I felt frustrated. Yes, I would get a book, finish it, and be okay. And that was what was wrong: after reading a book, I felt okay! Years before, whenever I finished a book, I wouldn’t be okay. I would be devastated, enraged, or inconsolable, even murderous or overjoyed—I would be anything but okay! I was okay because I no longer hungered for more. And I knew that to be a gigantic lie. I needed to be saved.
My savior came in the form of a friend I met online. His name was Patrick, who was a big fan of the Harry Potter series. Interestingly, it wasn’t that series he recommended to me but something else entirely. He introduced me to the world of Rick Riordan, a teen demigod, and the Greek Pantheon. He said I should give The Percy Jackson series a fair try.
Try I did. From the start to finish of The Lightning Thief, I was undeniably hooked. Even before I could finish the current book in the series, I would buy the next. That was how sure I was that I would love what I would read in the future, that the next book would be a hit with me. When I saw it came to life on the big screen, I raged. When I turned the final page of The Last Olympian, I experienced terrible withdrawal symptoms. By then, Patrick— and I as well—was sure that I was, assuredly, back into reading form.