Remember driving to your favorite bookstore and arriving at midnight? All the little Hermiones with wands, and Harrys with lightening shaped scars, up past their bedtimes, giddy with excitement as we bought the latest Harry Potter release?
I read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to my daughter but then she matured and slipped away to read subsequent books in the privacy of her room.
“Be quick about it,” I would say, secretly yearning for the days when we’d snuggle into bed and read together. “I’ve been waiting all year for this.”
I’ve been waiting for Alice Hoffman’s new novel, The Rules of Magic since turning the final page of Practical Magic back in 1995. Every now and then I pick up my copy of Practical Magic and re-read evocative, exquisite passages:
Gillian’s favorite thing in the world to do was lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a corner. That’s where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.
Oh, dear. Now that I’ve begun I might just transcribe the entire book…anyway, I’ve been longing to revisit the Owens women.
Contemplating the release of Rules of Magic brought back memories of every Harry Potter release. Why not celebrate one of my favorite books prior to its prequel’s release?
So I donned my witchiest regalia and set off at midnight for one of Savannah’s finest bookstores, E. Shaver, Booksellers. People were out, and because it’s Savannah, no one gave me a second glance.
As you can see, I brought my cauldron and broom.
And worked a few spells.
But the best I could conjure was that E. Shaver, Booksellers is holding a copy for me.
So I will be out front when they open tomorrow, October 10th, the official release date. Afterwards, I will retire to my velvet cushioned window seat, with my treasured copy of Rules of Magic, so relaxed and languid that moths might land on me.