It’s weird to think that if I never read this series, then maybe I never would have written fan fiction, or gotten the ideas for my stories. Maybe I still would have. Either way, I’m grateful for Percy Jackson—he’s contributed to me ending up here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
|via That Was Not in the Book|
Why I Thought I’d Hate It:I don’t even know. I come up with stupid reasons to not like things. Maybe it was the fact that it was a popular series in my fifth grade classroom, maybe it was the fact that a lot of boys liked it, maybe it was the fact that I was in love with Kate McMullen’s Myth-o-Mania series and I refused to believe that anything could ever be better.
It was recommended to me several times, though. I guess my classmates were smarter than me—they could see that I knew everything about Greek Mythology, was learning the Greek alphabet, and was more or less a teeny fangirl at the time.
They knew that this was a match made in heaven. (Probably not. But it sounds better that way.)
What Changed:I feel like the first recommendation I listened to was from this kid named Grant. He had red hair and a nice sister, and he was like, “You should really read this book.”
And I watched him do book reports on it, heard so many great things, and so finally, I picked it up, if only to read it and hate it in order to spite him.
Surprise, surprise, Percy Jackson made me fall in love with his series with the FIRST SENTENCE. The rest, as they say, is history.
Why It Turned Out I Liked It:I feel like Rick Riordan has the twelve-year-old audience kind of nailed down. His humor, the Greek mythology comparisons, the intensity of the stories, the relatability of the characters… It was all perfect for me at twelve years old.
Percy Jackson became my favorite series quickly. It became so easy to place myself into his world, which I did, frequently. I know I reread that book more times than was healthy (my poor copy is practically falling apart) and I actually have made a spreadsheet with every character named from the original series.
Rick Riordan gave me a rope to cling to, and then I just swung.
I didn’t always agree with Rick Riordan’s interpretations of the gods (more so now than I did then) but I loved the characters. I loved the stories. I used to motivate myself by refusing to let myself do anything less than what Percy would do in the same situation—no way that seaweed brain would ever beat me out.
Percy Jackson was also the first series where I really started writing fan fiction. I’ve always had fan fiction in my head, as long as I can remember, but I never considered writing it down before. Suddenly I could put these ideas to paper, everywhere, and Percy was really a staple that helped me get through middle school.
Of course… Percy Jackson also brought me to a dark time in my life. It came to be that I wanted to be the perfect demigod I had made in my roleplays more than I wanted to be Heather. Nowadays, I’m very conscious of how I present myself everywhere I go and separate myself from my writing—thank goodness.
I’ve never really gotten back into Rick Riordan books since. It’s not that any of his books are bad, but they have become sort of redundant for me—I am no longer the intended audience, and trying to force myself back into my twelve-year-old shoes is unhealthy if not creepy. But that’s okay. I found hope in the story when I needed it, and as I closed the last page of The Last Olympian, all I can remember is a deep sense of satisfaction and closing.
I couldn’t ask for anything more.