I had cause to think about a first book the other day. I read it, reasonably enjoyed it, but felt no need at all to read the subsequent ones in the series. This happens every now and again.
But then a thought struck me (not nearly as painful as it sounds); what if the series gets better? Maybe I was wrong to judge the as yet unpublished books on the basis of the first one? Especially if I sort of liked number one, a little. Or more than a little. Just without any urge to carry on.
Because there have been books like that, where you will find no bigger fan than the witch, once the next instalments have been adopted. Take Artemis Fowl. Yes, take him. The first book was amusing, but Artemis was such a bad boy. I reckoned it would be enough to know what the books were like, as seen from the beginning.
But then I found myself standing there in the children’s bit of whatever the then current name of that bookshop was. It was close to Christmas and I thought, maybe I should just get the second book too. Make it some sort of tradition.
And here I am, twenty years on, or however long it has been.
Or Skulduggery Pleasant. It was pleasant enough, but I didn’t need to read the other eight books that were coming. Except when the second turned up on my doorstep I allowed it to come in. Same story – I mean my reading, not that Eoin and Derek write the same books – and thirteen years and thirteen Skulduggeries later I have no immediate plans to stop.
So, what if the series I had just been thinking about were to turn out like them? I’d be an idiot not to have another go, wouldn’t I?