Monthly Archives: March 2015
Okay, the whole Norse mythology thing because my mom told me to post it. All nine pages of it, yup. (wow this is really bad and old)
Erin nominated me for the 777 Writing Challenge!
Basically, you scroll down to the seventh page of your WIP, count seven lines down, and post the next seven lines in your reply.
Okay, so I’ve barely had any time to write anything since…the start of the school year, actually, so the best I can do is cut from a short story I was writing in – wow, June? Way too long ago to really count, but it’s what I’ve got. I should really try to make some time for this stuff, like, after the IGCSEs or something.
“He’d probably panic or faint or something. He is human, I understand they tend to do that.”
“You have no faith in him. He’s one of us, he’d understand.”
“Not yet, he isn’t. He’s spent too much time in this realm. He’s forgotten what it’s like to feast in the great hall, to walk along the walls of the city -”
Locke paused, seemingly lost in thought. His attention slipped from his glass enough for it to tip over gently; a trickle of blood-red wine fell onto the rough floorboards.
It’s about Norse mythology and is cooler than it sounds in this extract, trust me (not really)
I’m not sure I can adequately put into words how important Terry Pratchett’s writing is to me, but I’m going to try nonetheless.
When I was very young, my father would tell us about books he’d read – ones too complicated for seven-year-olds to tackle, but snippets of which could be retold in bedtime stories.
My favourites of these were always the ones about Pratchett’s Death. I was enamoured with the idea of a Grim Reaper who loved kittens, went out for curry, and rode a horse named Binky; but who was all the same practical, sagacious, and very good at his job. So when I was eight years old, my father handed me Mort, the first Discworld novel starring Death.
I don’t think I read anything else for the next three years.
Discworld was one of the greatest influences of my childhood. Sir Pratchett’s writing made me laugh, of course, and I learned then how deep my thirst for satire really ran. It also made me cry, smile, blink hard at genuinely unexpected twists. It taught me to write my own stories, crude though they were then. But above all, those grim, witty, wonderful words shaped the way my mind works. They helped build the fundamental patterns of my thoughts and made me who I am today. And I know the same is true for so many others out there.
So thank you, Sir Terry Pratchett. Thank you for making us who we are, and for everything else along the way.
P.S- Drag the picture onto a dark background