I blame Terry Pratchett

by SJ Griffin

I don’t need to tell you, my dear, dear regular reader, that I am, at the best of times, a very erratic blogger. Marvel at how much time has passed since we were here last. Thrill at the total lack of words that have appeared on this site. Wonder at the audacity with which I point this out.

I have an excuse

The dog ate it. No, wait. It was Terry Pratchett that ate it. Sorry dog! Terry Pratchett ate my blog post. Blog posts. Plural. He has been doing this for some considerable time. Over two months, I think. He is ravenous for blog posts.

Be serious

Really? I sigh but acquiesce. I decided that I would read the whole Discworld series in order. I sort of fell into this decision, in the same why that depressed men fall into the Foreign Legion. Or Isis, as it is now known. I took a few of the later books on holiday – as I’d already read up to The Truth a while ago I thought I would read the rest. Then I found I had devoured them and when I came to the last one, Raising Steam, I decided to start again. I’m now on The Fifth Elephant so I’m almost back where I started. I shall continue through to the end again. I don’t think you can read Night Watch too often. Or Thud! Or Carpe Jugulum. Or… ah, you see the problem?

If someone who takes these things Very Seriously asks me who my favourite writer is I usually just say Virginia Woolf because I think that’s the answer people expect. But I say it in such a way that that’s what they hear but what I actually say is Terry Pratchett. I am assuming here that your favourite writer is someone of whom you can say you like pretty much everything they’ve written. Richard Ford is runner up here. Then Roger Hargreaves. It’s not the best way of thinking about it, perhaps. It rather unfairly demotes Joyce Carol Oates.

The wonderful thing about the Discworld series is that it’s just so damn good. It’s really well-written. It’s thoughtful. It’s funny. It makes pertinent comments about the way we live now. It’s populated by believable characters that I can relate to, which is amazing when you think that many of them are witches, wizards and (here I pause to cross myself – do forgive me) policemen.

And now, due to new word count limits, we come to the end of this post

This post is the first in a series of posts the next being about Why Terry Pratchett is better than Virginia Woolf and following that we wonder: Is Granny Weatherwax a feminist icon? And perhaps a more controversial and political post on Why I refuse to call him Sir Terry? We might skip that one, gentle overseas reader. Nobody panic.

By the way, it’s lovely to see you again. You are looking fabulous. Let’s not leave it so long next time, hmm?

 

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