First, the wizard part.
Speaking of wizards, I am reminded of the first time that I read the Harry Potter series. DeAnne and I had been dating for maybe a month when she asked if I had ever read Harry Potter. I told her that I had not, that I had no interest in doing so. I was reading books by Kurt Vonnegut, J. R. R. Tolkien, and high-brow (not eyebrow) stuff like that.
“Oh,” said DeAnne. “I’ve read them all multiple times. I really enjoy them.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I think you’d like them if you gave them a chance.”
“Well,” I said, thinking how pretty she was and how stupid I would be if I made her stop liking me because I was unwilling to read the books that she enjoyed simply because I thought that they were below me, “okay.”
You see, I am a book snob. If a book is popular, I have a tendency to believe that it is probably popular for bad reasons. Either it is poorly-written but pulls at some teenage emotional need (ahem, Twilight), or the media has created a frenzy (ahem, Fifty Shades of Grey), or I simply think it is below me. But there are times when my reflex to discount certain successes in the book world leads me astray. Such was the case with Harry Potter.
I am so glad that my wife introduced me to the world of Hogwarts if for no other reason than it started me on the path of recovery for my book-snobbish ways. (Though I am still not going to read Twilight.)