Now that I have finished the 3rd and final book of The Hunger Games series, I am a bit melancholy. Since I was a boy reading The Three Investigators or The Happy Hollisters, I’ve had a tendency to really get engaged with the characters I am reading about. So when I finish a series, especially one as enthralling as The Hunger Games, I find myself going through withdrawal, because I am no longer getting my regular dose of Katniss Everdeen. I guess it’s like coming off a literary high. (Or maybe like going without coffee for a week, as I just did over Spring break.)
By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, The Hunger Games has become an epidemic. Just about everyone I know has read or is reading it, including our entire family. During our Spring break trip to Belize, we were constantly running into people reading or talking about the series – on the plane, at the resort, on the beach, etc. I’ve not experienced a literary outbreak like this since another female author wrote a series of book about a young wizard boy. It’s fun to not only observe the spread of this craze, but to be swept up in it myself.
