I miss Percy Jackson.
Or rather, I miss the rush of following a series.
There’s a thrill when you’re reading a really good book. The rush of knowing that these characters are people you want to be your best friends and this plot is going to mean something to you.
This thrill is just extended when you read a good series. The anticipation of the next book, intensified if the next book is the finale.
Which brings me, once again, to Percy Jackson.
I have a confession to make: I didn’t grow up reading Harry Potter. I didn’t even grow up reading Percy Jackson, to be honest, though if I had read the books as they published, I would have been the same age as the Percy and Annabeth in some books.
Rather, I read both series while I was in high school. But between the two of them, the series that really hit home for me was Percy Jackson and the Olympians. I don’t know if it was because I’d seen the Harry Potter movies and already felt familiar with characters when I read the books, or if it’s because PJO fed into my obsession with mythology.
But I never had a proper book hangover over it. After I finished PJO, The Lost Hero had been published and I jumped headfirst into that series.
Recently, I’ve been missing that feeling of reading an excellent series for the first time. I miss reading about a protagonist and thinking, I want to get to know you. I miss reading a conflict and praying, I hope this ends well.
And I have discovered something: I am in constant danger of falling in love with stories.
I am in constant danger of finding a book that I won’t want to put down. I am in constant fear that I won’t find another story or set of characters that I will love as much as other books series I have loved before.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been in a slump? Maybe.