Tag Archives: Terry Pratchett

Just weird

After watching the programme about Terry Pratchett last weekend, I told myself I really must read more of his books, as there are some I’ve not yet read. I’ve been hanging on to the idea of them as a treat. It’s time to forget about [some] new books and dip into my reserve. The last time I thought along these lines I realised there is a problem. Son has custody of most of the Discworld books, and when we moved house that custody shifted from being his room in our house, to a room in his own home.

So I reached the conclusion I need to visit some charity shops, but before doing that, I ought to check which – if any – books we had managed to hang on to. I especially wanted to read Night Watch, after it was mentioned so many times last week.

It turns out we have exactly one unread Pratchett novel. Night Watch.

As I was visiting a real live bookshop, I had a quick look at their shelves of Discworld books. Seems there are some tasteful new covers of paperback sized hardbacks. I liked them, but £13? Besides, don’t they sort of have to be the cover designs we’ve got used to? Discworld’s not the same without them.

I had been invited to another event at the same time as Debi Gliori was talking at Blackwell’s on Thursday. It was the launch of the International Science Festival, and having had to miss it last year, I’d intended to make it work this time. And then I bumped into the publicist I thought had invited me, at my event, which seemed a bit odd. She’s working on something else. (So I clearly wouldn’t have found her at the launch.)

On my way to and from Edinburgh I read James Oswald’s new crime novel (more about that later). His corpse had a background in Saughton. It could be my old age, but while I knew this was a prison, I didn’t actually know where. Two minutes later my tram took me through Saughton.

I appreciate this kind of helpful behaviour in trams.

Terry Pratchett – Back in Black

It was the Barbican memorial for Terry Pratchett all over again. In the BBC documentary Back in Black on Saturday we could see an almost Terry. It’s enough to see someone wearing black, with a hat like his, and if there is a beard as well, then for a heartstopping moment it is Terry Pratchett. Here it was actor Paul Kaye doing what Terry didn’t have enough time to do. He did as good a job as you could ask for, speaking in the style of Terry, while not quite being our much missed author who has gone to be with Death.

I was able to point out to the Resident IT Consultant where I had been sitting, and towards the end when Eric Idle sang with the audience at the Barbican I got to see what I had to miss last year. Thank you for that.

Terry Pratchett postcards

Much of the rest of the programme was dedicated to alternately bless the world for having produced Terry, and crying because he’s gone. I have never before witnessed the seemingly unflappable Neil Gaiman even close to tears. We heard part of their story, some of which was new to me, filmed in the actual (?) place where a very young Neil interviewed a not so well known Terry.

And speaking of being not so well known; the clip from a 1990s television round table book discussion where they had the nerve to laugh and tut at our Terry was a real eye opener. If I was that woman I’d be worried about going out in public.

Val McDermid had good things to say about Terry as a lost crime writer, and many other friends shared their Terry with us. How I can sympathise with someone with a waist like the equator!

Rhianna Pratchett spoke about her father, mainly as a father. I’m glad he had time to be a dad in the midst of writing a couple of books a year and touring and getting to know his faithful fans.

And Rob Wilkins talked about the day Terry accused him of having mislaid the s on his keyboard. That’s the kind of thing that not only makes you want to cry, but you quietly begin to worry that one day you will lose your own letter s.

You – and I – have 28 days in which to watch [again] this lovely farewell.

And ten years on…

Ten years go so quickly, don’t they? While the fresh-faced Bookwitch looks good for ten, that other, tired witch propping her up is certainly showing her age. I reckon she thought she’d still be 29, ten years in. Whereas it’s more like, well, at least 49.

Meg Rosoff and the ALMA award, with Alice Bah Kuhnke and Katti Hoflin

I’ve often wondered if I’d last this long. The next wondering has always been whether to give it up. You know, nice round figure (and I don’t only mean me) to end it all.

Philip Pullman

But when I voiced this thought to Ross Collins last month he seemed shocked (and I’m not fooling myself into thinking he’s been here for the duration), so I immediately retracted my threat.

Julie Bertagna, bookwitch and Neil Gaiman

Ross then said I must have ‘got’ a lot of authors in that time, so I sighed deeply and said yes. He seemed concerned that I wasn’t sounding happier, which kicked me out of my morose state of mind. Yes, I do ‘have’ lots of authors, and I love every single one, and treasure them, and this is a cause for celebration. Not sighing. But you know, when you’re 49 sighing comes easily.

John Barrowman

In the last few days I’ve been in email conversation with someone else, about books and publishing and all that kind of thing, and I realised I’ve picked up quite a bit over the years. Not just authors, I mean.

Gordon Brown and Nick Barley

Actual knowledge, except it’s more like English grammar; I couldn’t tell you what it is. I just feel it.

So don’t ask me anything. I don’t know.

Philippa Dickinson and Terry Pratchett

There have been many absolutely wonderful books. And some less so. There have been really fun and interesting events, many of them in unusual places I’d not otherwise have got to visit. And those authors. Oh, those authors.

Steve Cole

Thank you.

(That’s the ‘I will go on for many more years’ thank you. Not the farewell thank you. I hope.)

Sara Paretsky

That’s funny

Much as I don’t enjoy the trend of famous comedians suddenly discovering that they need to write a children’s book, and doing very well and getting plenty of publisher attention for their efforts, it has caused one improvement to the state of things. Humour is now seen as something worth considering.

I have always liked humorous fiction. I have long felt there’s not enough of it, and also that it’s been so wrong to look down on it. As though humorous fiction is to children’s fiction as children’s fiction is to Booker prize type fiction; i.e. inferior.

It’s not. In fact, I’d suggest that just like writing for children requires more skill, and not less, to write good humour means you have to be really excellent at what you do. Not everyone can do it, or do it well, but when they can, the results can be spectacular.

A couple of weeks ago Adrian McKinty blogged about his twenty funniest novels and it’s an interesting list. I agree with his choice, about the ones I’ve read. I might have picked others, and it could be Adrian doesn’t find them funny, or that he’s not read the same books I have. These things happen.

I do agree with him about this, though: ‘It’s got be funny throughout too. One really funny scene as in Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim for example just doesn’t cut it. I’m also not allowing anything that people say is funny but which actually isn’t or perhaps used to be funny but isn’t anymore. I’ve read Gargantua and Pantagruel and they are not funny. Shakespeare’s comedies are not funny. Dickens is not funny.’

There’s a lot in life that’s not funny. But there’s also a lot that is. And yes, I hated Lucky Jim the first time I read it. Loved it on the second read. But Adrian is right; one funny scene isn’t enough. (Apart from The Vicar Of Nibbleswicke, I don’t reckon Roald Dahl is funny. Not in that way.)

I’ve not thought this through enough so I can give you my own list, but Terry Pratchett is obviously on it. Would be, I mean, if there was a list. And even if I stick to children’s books, I reckon Douglas Adams has to be on it. From there it is a quick jump to Eoin Colfer and from him to many other Irish authors (it must be the water?), and then jump again, to Frank Cottrell Boyce, Joan Aiken, Morris Gleitzman, Debi Gliori, Barry Hutchison, Hilary McKay, Andy Mulligan, Kate DiCamillo. And last but not least, my fairy blogmother Meg Rosoff. She doesn’t only kill goats.

My apologies to anyone not mentioned. I didn’t go about this scientifically, but merely wanted to mention that being funny is a good thing. A good read is good for your wellbeing, and a funny read is even better. Go on, find something to make you laugh! Preferably until you cry. The hankies are on me.

9, 9, 9

No need to send any emergency vehicles my way. I’m merely obsessing about numbers again. Last year it was the eights, approximately a month earlier than now. But it’s odd the way it is 999 at a time like this. And last Wednesday was the ninth day of the eleventh month. I’m presuming it’s coincidence.

Anyway, today it has been nine years, nine months and nine days of solid Bookwitching. Who’d have thought? On the other hand, I don’t suppose anyone sets out to write a blog, expecting it to be for a set period of time. I don’t know how long I will keep at it, but I reckon you are safe from this type of inane blog post in the future. Somehow 10, 10, 10 seems wrong. Besides, it’d be too close to Christmas.

And I’ve had the party, even if I broke my promise of inviting you. I suppose I was worried I’d run out of Irn-Bru. I now feel all partied out. What’s more, the ‘dining room’ is gone. Not to a better place, either. But we’re hoping its replacement will be a better place, if and when it happens. We had Jekubs to begin with, which made me very nostalgic for The Bromeliad. The Jekubs dug trenches, of which there are still remains. And there is mud. It’s not quite war, though.

House build

We could make it an al fresco Christmas, I suppose.

Wintersmith

After my recent close encounter with Steeleye Span, which made me feel so guilty, I decided the least I could do was give the Resident IT Consultant the CD on which they collaborated with Terry Pratchett.

Steeleye Span, Wintersmith

When we first met I he introduced me to the music of Steeleye Span. I had heard of them, but never really listened to their stuff. I soon found that the Resident IT Consultant’s taste in music wasn’t as totally hopeless as I perhaps had expected, and I listened to quite a bit of Steeleye Span for some years.

But then I slowly moved on to other kinds of music and haven’t listened as much to Steeleye Span in recent years.

It was the Resident IT Consultant who introduced me to Terry’s books as well. Or rather, when I realised there was this much talked about author I might want to find out more about, it turned out we already had one or two paperbacks on the shelves, and I was able to educate myself.

So here I am, listening to the Resident IT Consultant’s birthday present. Maybe I should let him have a go as well.

After that unexpected live performance at the Barbican for Terry’s memorial, I felt they had got ‘rockier.’ Maybe not. I suspect it’s more the difference between live – and loud – music on stage, and how it sounds on your system at home. Maddy Prior sings as beautifully as ever.

I especially liked hearing Terry’s voice on The Good Witch. It felt as if he was talking directly to me.

There’s always one

Bathroom visit in the early hours, a few weeks ago. Barely awake, I noticed an annoying beeping sound. I thought about it. ‘Hmm, it’s rather like when smoke detectors try to tell you they are hungry,’ I said to myself. ‘If we had one.’ It seemed odd that I could hear the neighbours’ one.

Exiting the bathroom, I discovered we did indeed have a smoke detector. And it went beep once a minute. I felt I couldn’t demand the Resident IT Consultant should pop out of bed to deal with it, so I tried to sleep a bit more despite the noise. Wasn’t easy, but I managed some. Woke up to find the beeping had stopped. Still informed the Resident IT Consultant about it (he’d heard nothing…) but I could tell he didn’t believe me.

What’s more, he wasn’t going to change the battery, because the smoke detectors are wired in. I suddenly remembered finding this out once before (when it had actually rung and scared the living daylights out of Daughter and me) and how stupid it all seemed. And then I had forgotten.

I was travelling to London the next morning, so wanted an early night, and contrary to other such well-intentioned evenings, I was ready to hop into bed at nine. ‘Beep!’

It was on again. Obviously having rested all day long it felt nice and fresh. This time the Resident IT Consultant couldn’t deny hearing it. Hah!

How was I going to sleep? He thought about it, googled how to do it, and then proposed climbing up there and removing it live, as it was too dark to see anything if he removed the lighting circuit fuse [to which it is wired] first. I thought about this and then said I wouldn’t allow it. After all, he was supposed to drive me to the airport the following morning and it’d be so inconvenient if he eloctrocuted himself just then. And I’m a bit fond of him, too.

After more thinking he decided to go ahead anyway. The dratted thing came off reasonably well, while obviously still beeping as it had a back-up battery. The Resident IT Consultant pulled the battery out and put it and the smoke detector side by side, rather like a chopped off limb.

‘Now you’ll stay quiet,’ he told it.

‘Beep.’

Yeah, you couldn’t make it up. There was a back-up back-up battery. ‘I’ll put it in the conservatory,’ I said. We could still hear it. I went out in my pyjamas and stuffed it in the garage instead, where it beeped away during the night.

But at least sleep was once again possible and the Resident IT Consultant was still alive and I made it to the airport, the London Book Fair, Terry Pratchett’s memorial and all that.

We now have a replacement pair of alarms, which [touch wood] shouldn’t be quite so hard to disable in the middle of the night.

Maybe.