My little sister (nearly 6 years old) just walked in complaining about her sty on her eye (one of many she has had since she was born).

Annie: And I hate havin' a sty 'cause then I haba (have to) put a tea bag on my eye.

This is the essence of my mother. Crazy remedies for everything. It keeps life interesting.

Who would have thought that my fiction class this past semester would have given me the ability to sympathize with the richest woman in Europe?--J.K. Rowling. I surely didn't. In fact, the assignment to write our own short story as part of our grade made the hair on my spine stand a little taller and the perfectionist part of my heart sink a little deeper.

Thus, my class of five embarked on this emotional journey. Maybe it was only emotional for my friend Little Megan and myself, but it grew out of control by the end of this project. Allow me to explain myself.

To appease my whining and "puppy-dog eyes," my gracious professor decided to make this project a sort of writing workshop. We were all to first develop a setting and spend half an hour describing as best we could this setting that we saw in our imaginations. Then we switched papers. The next assignment brought out the humanity in the story, as we were supposed to develop a character based on the setting which we had received. The next week, we read both parts and again switched papers to find the conflict within the story. Lastly, the story returned to its owner (the author of the setting) and the owner had to finish the story.

Originally I had no connection to my setting. However, as soon as the character and the plot were introduced, the entire class and myself became intrigued in this story. We all wanted to know how it would develop and what was in store for the character. When given the task of finishing the story, I realized that I cared so much about this guy... yes, it sounds ridiculous... write a story yourself and then make fun of me! It was strange to play God to a fictions man. I alone knew his destiny. And for better or worse, the class had to live with my decision. If I wanted to kill him, he would die and I would suffer no consequences. If I wanted him to change into a dragon, with a flick of my pen, he would. The most frightening part was that once I began writing, I almost lost control of the story. It took on a life of its own. It was as if I was simply there to record it with a pen and paper... but the story wrote itself, and I had little control. Frustrated after stewing over this simple assignment for days and tossing and turning and even dreaming about it for nights, I could no longer take it. I had to end it all. I had to kill this man. So I did. Am I proud that I ended his life? No, I am not. It could have ended other ways. The class seemed mildly disappointed and I was mourning the loss. But I couldn't take it any longer! He was consuming my life!

This leads to my fascination with J.K. Rowling. I feel that I can sympathize with her. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do what she needed to do to end the best-loved series probably since C.S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia. She must have agonized over it! And she alone had to decide Harry's fate--no one else could do it for her. I can't imagine the pressure! And wherever she left it, it is finished--The END. While we all sit here and anxiously await the release of this story, wondering whether or not it will really be final, she must sit there and live with her decision to rid herself of Harry and those she has devoted thought and time and energy to for the past 15 years. I am much too much like the crazy woman from "Stranger than Fiction" to be an author. I would be the type to write six books of the story and never write the seventh, for fear that I would have to recognize its finality. Obviously, I could also never be God.

So here's to you, Ms. Rowling, for doing something I am sure I could never have emotionally accomplished. No matter what happens/has happened to those the world has grown to love the past 10 years, I am proud of you. :)

This morning at midnight, we went to see Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix.
This alone makes me happy, but what made me a little more happy was the fact that we dressed up.

Yes, we were twenty and dressed like Harry Potter characters. And we were pretty much the only ones in the theater dressed up.

What made my night was this little girl in the front row who seriously thought I was Hermione. I walked in and she was staring at me with these big, brown eyes (yes, she was really cute) while excitedly jumping as her parents agreed with her that, yes, it really IS Hermione!

Every time I walked past, she looked at me hopefully like she expected me to teach her how to produce a patronus charm or something. She made me feel very awkward and self-conscious. I think that is a special power that little kids have--the power to intimidate adults.

It made me so happy... not that I would really want to be famous or anything crazy, but for a night, it was interesting. And she was so cute. I wish I could have mustered up the courage to say something to her, instead of just returning the smile and wave she gave me every time I walked past.