Daily Prompt: Trio No. 3

Today you can write about anything, in whatever genre or form, but your post must mention a dark night, your fridge, and tears (of joy or sadness; your call). Feel free to switch one ingredient if you have to (or revisit one from previous trio prompts).

I stood in line for the last five Harry Potter books. In no case was I later than 1:30 am getting home with the new book. Did I go to bed like a sensible person? I had all the lights blazing in the living room to chase away the dark night that was trying to convince me it was time for bed. Instead, I would curl up in my recliner and while away the night. I never was later than 7 am in finishing the book. My habit was to lie down thereafter and sleep as if I were waiting for another shoe to drop. But before I could lie down, I had to feed the cats. I had a high of seven and a low of three cats during the Harry Potter days. I now have four. Feeding must be done at regular intervals, or something hits the fan.

I never slept more than four hours on those days. I would then get up, raid the fridge for something portable, and head back to the recliner to read the whole thing again. I had so quickly read the book the first time that there were nuggets galore in the second reading. I would discover someone in the room or conversation that I had missed, descriptions that seemed irrelevant that became much more relevant when the whole story was known.

So I would spend a whole night and day with Harry Potter. Nothing I had read before had left me with such an urge to read more, unless it was Tolkien’s ending to The Two Towers. If you don’t remember it, I urge you to look it up. When I first read it, I knew I had to wait at least a day for my sister to finish The Return of the King before I would find out how horrible it was for Frodo. I had cried at the end of The Two Towers, first when I, with Sam, thought Frodo was dead, and then at the end of the book, a few short pages later. The only time I cried in the first six Harry Potter books was when Dumbledore died. Tolkien did a much better job of making me cry. But I think both of these series had much to do with my being what I now am, a writer of fantasy.

And I am writing this post in order to avoid finishing my final edit of my first book before sending it to my editor. Go figure.


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