Okay. I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t. After I tell you, you must forget that I ever mentioned it. Promise? Good.
I like Harry Potter, but I suppose that like every other artist out there, I want to be recognized as a unique storyteller.
I like to tell people the story of where my book was birthed: I got the idea for my books as I walked through German farmland, exploring old villages and castles… very cool.
But for some reason, even though I have tried hard not to be Harry Potter… I found it an easy reference point to explain to people what my book might be like. (Not that I even pretend to be that good of have any expectations for ever being that big in my life. I actually feel a little pretentious even mentioning it right now.)
But I’m not Harry Potter. Nope. Nope. I am me, myself, my own.
And now I have just received my first review. And guess what?
He says I’m Harry Potter… ish. Very nicely. But he nailed it closer than I’ll comfortably admit.
You see… while I lived in Germany, there were very few English books around for me to read. But one day I found some, tucked in a back box in the corner of a room next to mine. I’d been avoiding them to that point but upon the discovery of something English to read… I couldn’t help it.
Yup. You guessed it. Harry Potter.
So those long inspirational strolls I took? Usually I had a book with me. And I liked them.
Did this influence my writing?
But you already promised to forget.