Dear JK Rowling

You will never read this. You do not know I exist. But I, like so many people my age, know you. I know you and I am intimately familiar with your story. Those books you wrote all those years ago shaped me. They inspired me. They made me who I am today.

And no one, not even you, will take that away from me.

Harry Potter were the first books to touch me, the first books to make me cry, the first books to make me understand that I wanted to put pen to paper as well. When I was a young child—like Harry—living in an abusive household, those books were my escape. They made me believe I could run away to a magical world, escape my situation, be something bigger than I believed I could be when I was all alone. All of these things were true. I grew up wearing my house colors, saying incantations while waving sticks. Eventually, I got one of those incantations etched beneath my skin to always stay with me.

But as I grew older and became more educated about the world, I began to realize the books I loved so much were imperfect. There were people who were very real who did not exist within this magical world that had become my home. People who looked like me, people who loved like me. Though you said they were there, you never did the work to ensure people would know that when you’re gone, even when given the opportunity. You added things to the canon that were insensitive to people who exist in the here and now. You ignored the concerns of people who so often had their voices silenced. And this broke my heart.

They say never meet your heroes. You are most certainly not responsible for the image of you I crafted in my mind. All you did was create a character the world fell in love with. It was our fault for expecting you to live up to your name. But regardless, you disappointed me. Dumbledore taught me that sometimes the people I look up to are fallible and flawed. I still wasn’t prepared for the crash that sounded when you fell off your pedestal.

I cannot support you anymore. I can no longer give money to someone who doesn’t believe (or at least doesn’t act like she believes) that everyone deserves to be treated equally. Your story meant the world to me and it always will. And yet somehow, I was under the impression you owed me more, owed the world more. You owed it to the world to be the person we wanted you to be. You most certainly did not. But I’m still hurt you couldn’t live up to my expectations.

It is, in part, because of you I am a writer. You inspired me to find my own voice. Though I never really knew you, though you will never know me, I felt like I did. Because I am a writer, I know you bled your soul onto the page and gave it to others with the small hope it would make just one person smile. You were lucky enough to make the whole world smile. But the truth is, I never knew you. The fault is mine for wanted you to be better. The par asocial relationship I have been mourning is of my own creation. So, I lay the image I had of you to rest.

I will always love the story you crafted. But I can no longer support you. The words you created will always be etched beneath my skin, but I will no longer name you when asked why I did it. The world you created will always welcome me home, but I will no longer look for you in it.

I don’t know if you’re sorry for me or the other fans you disappointed. But I am sorry I ever expected better of you.

Thank you for the memories. Even if they are now bittersweet.

Yours truly,

A Queer Harry Potter Fan