Does this deserve its own page? Probably not. Still, nobody reads this blog, so I get to do what I want, and I want an entire page to wail about my favourite books. And by favourite, I mean would choose to save these books over my brother, maybe. (I don’t need a brother anyway. I was never consulted on that.)
Harry Potter. It goes without saying. I still feel like J.K. Rowling must have been psychic when she wrote Hermione because she clearly just wrote me into a book just magical and British-er and also gets international sports stars to fall in love with them so probably not me, but let’s just roll with it.
The Hunger Games. Because every child needs to start dreaming about how good they’d be at murder from an early age. It builds character.
The Diviners by Libba Bray. Although my first post on this blog was about how the third book let me down in the most middle-of-the-road way possible (if you’re going to fail, make it a glorious dumpster fire of a fail, please), the first two books kept me up ALL NIGHT, FRIENDSICKLE because I was afraid of monsters (but that’s okay, I was going to stay up reading anyways).
The Lord of the Rings, or, the moment when Leo (me) decided that all she ever wanted out of life was to wield Andúril and become a Ranger who was also the secret heir to the throne of Gondor. No joke, I seriously started trying to learn Sindarin (even though Tolkein only fully completed Quenya, because Aragorn spoke Sindarin).
The Lies of Locke Lamora. Remember when I said I wanted to be a Ranger and King of Gondor? Well, I also want to be a thief and a con man like Locke Lamora. I want to go to Camorr. I want to join a gang. (This ties into the dreaming about how good I’d be at murder nurtured by The Hunger Games.)
In a similar vein, Six of Crows. Because, literally, whenever I’m not feeling confident, I just think WWND? (What Would Nina Do?) and get the confidence I need to wear bright red lipstick/buy a leather jacket/get seconds of dessert/nap because I deserve it.