Terry Pratchett (1948–2015)

I suspect that Terry Pratchett—funny without being silly, insightful without being condescending, lovingly pointing-out human while simultaneously understanding its origins and inevitabilities—works best for non-fantasy readers, despite the fantasy tropes he runs with. This is certainly the case with me; he remains one of the very few SFF authors whose books I genuinely adore. (This particular sentiment he would abhor, but I can defend it.)


I came to Pratchett in 2010. I hadn’t been a fantasy reader, but I chanced A Game of Thrones, loved it…and found it hopelessly draining. My then-girlfriend suggested I take-up Pratchett to cure the blues.

“But he has like a million novels,” I said.

“Just try this one.” She handed me a book. “It’s a standalone. You’ll love it.”

Monstrous Regiment is the story of Polly Perks, a Mulan-esque trooper who disguises herself as a man to pluck her brother from the war. The story is mostly wry and amusing, and, in the last quarter, suddenly hilarious.

But looking back, the first thing I consider about the book, and Pratchett generally, is his Dickensian aesthetic. Like Dickens, Pratchett’s characters are caricatured, but believable and rounded. Like Dickens, he’s got a fantastic, double barrel-absurdist sense of  humour, powered by a fabulous wit (“Give a man a fire and he’s warm for a day, but set fire to him and he’s warm for the rest of his life”).

More important, however, is Pratchett’s understanding of comedy as framework for seriousness. The hilarity of Monstrous Regiment’s last quarter is wrapped within a resoundingly truthful climax—one I dare not spoil—elevating it into something sublime, and it’s a visceral truth that works on multiple levels. This element of truth Pratchett packs is rooted in a rage—against injustice, apathy, laziness, misconduct, neglect—which he deftly turns into charismatic charm. In other words, the trick to Pratchett is that, while his books are largely decorated with fantasy tropes, his most famous creation taking place on the backs of four elephants balanced on top of a turtle hurtling through space (I am not kidding), his concerns are, the first two books excepted, human. And he’s polite enough to be funny about it.

It’s easy to see the man behind the text: this humanitarian who saw wonder despite humanity’s effort to obscure it. Easy to glimpse the person who campaigned for the right to assisted suicide, and who would make Choosing to Die.

Not all the books are homeruns, obviously, and I speak from the experience of four novels and some essays. Years after Monstrous Regiment, and needing a laugh, I picked-up Guards! Guards!, a book concentrating on the Night’s Watch and the lovable group which forms it. That book is recommended without reservations, a steady drip of feel-good that I somehow found cathartic. Mort, which sees Death looking for an apprentice, is recommended as well, despite one subplot which stretches believability. But the first Discworld book, The Colour of Magic, is a parody of fantasy novels, and while it is rich in one-liners  (“What he didn’t like about heroes was that they were usually suicidally gloomy when sober and homicidally insane when drunk”), it is lesser than the sum of its parts. If you are hoping explore his Discworld books, consult a reading guide.

Meanwhile, I’m here thinking that the world is a little poorer today, and I find myself hoping that, when he passed, he passed the way he wanted to, surrounded by loved ones and listening to Thomas Tallis. The strange thing about today is I have a lifetime’s worth of his treasure to discover, and realise that it’s this very body of work which would, on other days, provide comfort.

I cannot do him justice. It’s a task I suspect will be achieved by Neil Gaiman, his co-author on Good Omens (their sole collaboration…and that’s my stupid joke for the day).

But I can say this:

It has been a privilege to see the author peeking from behind the words. It is a privilege, always, to explicate Jane Austen’s views or Eleanor Catton’s or Virginia Woolf’s from the words.

Or Terry Pratchett’s.

Goodbye, you beautiful man.

It’ll be a pleasure to know you better still.


Out of an Uncertain Place

I’m not entirely sure what happened. It was September, 2013. I bent to tie my shoelaces. When I looked back up, a year had passed.

In truth, it was a year of trials. I had a computer science degree to finish, which, combined with work, the loss of loved ones, and your garden variety existential wandering/emotional jibber-jabber/occasional life choice to reckon with, did wonders for my writing—wonders, of course, in the sense that it murdered it. Regardless, I think I did well, life-wise. A-, B+. I’m more driven, more organised, a touch more cynical, cursed with an insatiable craving for burritos, but relatively intact and one jeans size smaller, to boot. (Shoe size remains unchanged.)

Though I did try: a meditation on Zadie Smith and love stands at 500 words, waiting for me to brave bringing it whole into being; an exploration of my Arabic identity, clocking at 1000 words, needs direction and major rewriting; the first pages of short stories blot my hard drive, ideas tossed-off by a maniacal printer. Small things, there and there. I had other priorities.

Priorities are now dealt with, well and permanently. Hi! I’m back. And at something of a loss. I feel like the guy who left the party to help his mother with some minor computer problem and returned to find himself at the climax of Carrie. Because although I left the year with a firm understanding of my writing voice (slightly melancholy, tongue occasionally placed in-cheek; see the Hemingway section in “Writers like boats on fire“), I’m now supposed to be an adult. I mean, adulthood, generally, the 1-2-3, is easy. I pay my bills on time and meet my deadlines and communicate honestly and openly with any coworkers. I try being an insurmountable professional (not exactly helped by telling people about this blog). I shoulder my responsibilities. But there’s a certain liberty to screw-up in small ways that comes with being a university student which, in spending five years doing a four year course (I make no excuses; I wasn’t always responsible), you get used to and that, now, as a shaven, full-fledged adult, you’re expected to shrug off. It’s the price of your degree. Slick haircuts and tidy suits, suave as a Wall Street broker. I didn’t learn this stuff doing object-oriented programming. There’s all this uncertainty I’m supposed to have now put in-check—diplomatically, as adults do—then be on my way to attend all this adult stuff.

Still, I write; there’s a solace in that. You kindle that fire by being alive. You meet new people, have dinner with friends. You go to the gym, discover new music, enjoy the change of seasons. You read new books and expand your vocabulary, learn to write more evocatively and economically, to carefully choose words from the subtle place between slim and slender. You find your triumphs and your occasional despairs. And in the beats between moments wonderful and mundane, you appreciate. So you write. Any snark gets neatly tidied-up and framed into irony, the requirement of the age. (On most days you end-up imitating David Simon, a claim I’m perfectly aware this post does not support.) You write, always, honestly, and hope the writing speaks truthfully in turn. You try to find your voice. You pick-up that melting pot of influences and inspirations—Zadie Smith, Michael Chabon, Flannery O’Connor, your favourite Staves song and that New Orleans jazz number you just learned—and pour out the result to hammer into something wholly your own.

But I’ve arrived—more driven, organised, burrito-craving etc.,—at an age of creative opportunity cost. There’s an issue of what I’m supposed to be doing (writing, tutoring, sleeping), what I am doing (editing, tutoring, in denial about my writing-induced insomnia), and the lack of output that hides the fact I am squeezing, as much as humanly possible with my workload, all the lemons life has thrown at me by writing with the relentless tenacity of a physicist staring into the jaws of the universe in whatever time I can steal. At this point I’m hoping I pull a Neil Gaiman (I don’t blame you for imagining Neil deGrasse Tyson) and drop a truckload’s worth of work, suddenly finished, on people. (How did you do that? they’ll ask. NBD, I’ll say. Das jus’ how I roll.)

Because I’ve realised that I’m running out of time. It’s finite, a precious resource you need to invest in yourself, your writing, your friends and family and loved ones. You make time to write and learn a new language and do your recipes and maybe even make a bit of time to build a castle out of toothpicks, because you’ve always wanted to, but you have to use it wisely. Because it’s hard to look back and see the decomposing footsteps of unfinished work when there’s so little to show for all the passionate love you inexorably pour. I’m 25. Charles Dickens had published The Pickwick Papers at my age, and was busily composing Oliver Twist. Zadie Smith had published White Teeth. EM Forster was writing Where Angels Fear to Tread. I’ve gotta hustle. Time is ticking. Choices are slimmer. So you plan your day more efficiently, eat dinner faster, do your workout more quickly, forego sleep for another 1000 words because the midnight oil is burning and the words spill out of you faster than you can remember them to type.

So what do you do about your uncertainties? You clamp down. As much as I’d love to write every great, tantalising work that beckons me from the bookshelves—every introspective masterpiece, groundbreaking science fiction novel, great political satire and comedy-of-manners—I’ve got to choose. Benjamin Franklin I am not. You just get on with it. Because though it’s easy to dismiss yourself as a writer if you have nothing new to say, if the story taking form, written by wrenching out where it hurts, is a cliché (so ineffective in fiction, so potentially overwhelming in real life it’s almost demeaning), easy to listen to the people who dismiss what you have so far, easy to think your insecurities as childish or unworthy, to feel the output is mediocre, and then succumb to self-doubt, it’s harder to not have anything to show for it.

It’s hard, in other words, to write about love, identity, loss, compassion and failure and grace, the sum of your small victories and big defeats, then go over them and think: this is not good enough. Yet harder still to keep it for yourself. There are great authors out there to go up against. So you acknowledge your own insecurities. You sit down. You get to work. Because ultimately, I think, none of those guys really knew what they were doing, either, and whatever choice I make, on some subconscious level, I have to believe is the right one.

Here we go, then.

Hi. My name is Karim Anani. I want to be an editor or a copywriter. In my spare time, I want to write fiction. I’m purposefully working on it. I hope you enjoy my blog.

Writers Like Boats on Fire

Paul Murray, who wrote the glorious Skippy Dies and the to-be-read An Evening of Long Goodbyes, relates this story:

My friend David lives in Sandymount, and his father was out with David’s grandfather when he was just a boy, and they came across a man lying across the ground in the morning. And the grandfather says to the father, “There is Ireland’s greatest living writer.” And it was Flann O’Brien lying there.

– Paul Murray

My own father related to me, as we were walking around the downtown area of my local city a few years ago, that internationally-acclaimed Nobel Prize laureate of a novelist Naguib Mahfouz would, on bad days, sit around local cafes with an endless supply of tea, ready for a fight. I inferred that on good days he got one. I see it. You have a squinty-eyed, thin-lipped tree of a man with a thumb-wide nose at a waist-high table stacked with dirty tea cups, scowling at yellow paper flecked with faded tea imprints. He’s dressed in a white thawb and clutching a chewed-up pen he’s borrowed off the waiter, unlikely to be returned. The solution to the book’s problems seem like they should be obvious, but the obvious isn’t obvious yet. Naguib leans forward. He is so intent he doesn’t realize it. The idea begins to take form. His mind reaches out to it, almost grasping it, when sudden laughter grates against his concentration.

Naguib is not the subject, catalyst, or cause of this laughter, but it irritates him. The thought slips, perhaps forever. No further thought that can occur to him will be as powerful. Frustration swells; he shakes with anger.

He makes his way to the laughing man.  Twig arm launches back in an arc; his fist curls into a punch-shaped clump. It launches with all the ferocity of a squirrel, but it lands. This is the best punch he will get in a fight that will last for fifteen seconds. It creates a splash in the neighborhood; the local gossip will nibble on the sea-weed the waves bring for weeks. But it gets the job done. The book is finished, because a bruised writer is a writer insusceptible to distractions. When it drops, with the silent fall but sudden impact of a bomb on an ocean, Naguib Mahfouz rides its waves into history.


“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

Ernest Hemingway lived to have something to write about, sharpened his pencil like a harpooner sharpens his aim or refilled his ink ribbon with the tenacity he filled his wine glass, then bled words to paper. He aimed high, but he took his time firing. He couldn’t miss.

He had a soft voice, but a mustache to dissipate expectation of it and, when that didn’t suffice, a beard. He fought and brawled, sometimes with artists and sometimes with men who only bled blood. He drove an ambulance in the First World War; when the Spanish Civil War erupted, he went as a reporter. He caught fish that tried to catch him back and fought bulls. He hunted and perhaps haunted lions in Africa. He survived two plane crashes, then, because why not, won the Nobel Prize. All the while, he drank like a Victorian prostitute. He fished in Key West and went in his boat to Cuba. His life’s story was perhaps a better one than those he told, though no-one was better set to tell it. Half of it is unbelievable; the other half is false.

His resolution did not shake when his hands did.

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

– Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

He boxed. He used his fishing boat to hunt for Nazi U-boats in the Caribbean. Masculinity the way his god intended it was an obsessive pursuit. He couldn’t miss.

But there were bad days.

Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.

– Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Even among the better ones:

When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

– Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

When he died, he died on his own terms: drinking, miserable, improvising apocrypha, cork-stopping life with a well-placed shotgun blast in the mouth. He couldn’t miss.


F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda drank, and when it didn’t achieve what they wanted they drank again. He was a Romantic, and she was his golden girl. So they drank. It must have helped keep the illusion alive.

Though a soldier (never deployed), he said he became a writer after his sisters died; he unfurled his sails, sailing into legend, when he met Zelda. This Side of Paradise he wrote to make enough money to marry her. It sold enough to allow them to get used to an opulent lifestyle; the follow-ups sold little enough to make that opulent lifestyle a whirlpool for them to drown in.

I loved Scott very much but he was extremely difficult with that situation he got himself into and Zelda constantly making him drink because she was jealous of his working well…He had a very steep trajectory and was almost like a guided missile with no one guiding him.

– Ernest Hemingway

They were trouble for each other. Men fell for her, plunging themselves like divers into a beautiful ocean. She seldom returned their interest, but Scott reacted like she did. They fought and they drank, they loved and they drank, forgot and drank, reconciled and drank, and they drank and drank some more.

They knew Hemingway; Zelda hated the man, a feeling he reciprocated. She accused Scott of having an affair with him; Scott responded by sleeping with a prostitute, wanting to prove his masculinity. At a party, she threw herself down marble stairs to get his attention. It was almost like they were made for each other. But you couldn’t burn the illusions he’d stored-up.

Zelda and I sometimes indulge in terrible four-day rows that always start with a drinking party but we’re still enormously in love and about the only truly happily married couple I know.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald

When he tried to write, she grew isolated and bored. She would interrupt, but she’d have been happier not bothering. So she tried to develop her own artistic ambitions, to escape being a passenger on his boat, first in ballet and – when Scott sank that – in writing. It didn’t work. She grew more bored and more insane; he grew more sullen and disillusioned.

One summer Zelda became infatuated with a young French pilot named Jozan; six weeks later, she asked Scott for a divorce. He trapped her in a house, so she could stop. She did. But they’d broken something too well for repair.

I feel old too, this summer…the whole burden of this novel—the loss of those illusions that give such color to the world that you don’t care whether things are true or false as long as they partake of the magical glory.

– F. Scott Fitzgerald

And slowly they drifted apart, boats sped by different currents. She spent her time in mental hospitals, he with a new lover. He died of a heart-attack; she died in a hospital fire. He died thinking he was a failure, forgotten, writing self-mockery; she died happier than she’d been with him.

His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly’s wings. At one time he understood it no more than the butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.

– Ernest Hemingway

He kept contact with Zelda until the day he died. I like to think it was because he wanted to, in the end, stupidly rekindle that fire, to see the world in its vibrant colours as he’d seen it all those foolish years ago when she’d been a golden girl and his mind could romp like the mind of God. He would not know that she would not attend his funeral or their daughter’s wedding, and I like to think he would not have minded, because no matter about today’s failures: Tomorrow he would run faster, stretch his arms further, and one fine morning —


Some writers are people you want to fall in love with.

Carson McCullers wrote about broken, isolated folk down south, misfits who are aces of perfectly-symmetrical broken hearts, trying to fit into full decks. When she wrote, she said, she tried to find God. It’s hard not to fall in love with that desperation, because the desperation isn’t cheap. I suppose she spooled her heart out.

But let’s imagine you meeting Carson McCullers, an alcoholic chain-smoker with a talent. She sits, curiously looking at you, waiting to see what you do. She seems excited, but you wonder if she’s going to fold in on herself. You talk. She delights you. You delight her. She’s so charming she can make a drawl endearing. You’re so charming she forgets to smoke.

That night you walk her to her front door. She’s looking at you, trying to be playful, but she’s an ace of broken hearts and doesn’t quite manage to play the game you are. You love the attempt, however, and lean in for the kiss. She takes you in, softly, unbelieving, until her hand finds its way to your neck, yours to her waist. As the kiss lingers she becomes real to you as you want to be real to her.

She now has a chance to invest her feelings in you, or let her insecurities become her. What does she choose? Does she step back, thinking that happiness is a trap, a mountain to scale, where the higher you climb, the further you have to fall, no matter how often you climb? Or does she let herself fall for you, trust you to help her scale that mountain, trust herself to help you, climbing areas steep and dangerous? Does she trade a morsel of immortality and insecurity for a bright spark of happiness, no matter how intangible happiness really is?

A writer is an idiot who spills their heart out on paper instead of to a therapist. If the writer is lucky or charming, they are a fucking idiot. And naturally, she will love you, make love to you, fuck you, but then she will crumple you and throw you away, a misfired use of her feelings, an unused draft of an excerpt in the great novel she will be writing soon, soon, soon.


Shakespeare was kissed in a meadow brushed with coriander: lustily entangled, mouths moving from lips to skin to graze like deer near pleasant fountain and jutted wood. A rival poet, unskilled but beautiful, lies with them, a love triangle finally locked into place, love, jealousy and lust shifting and morphing – perhaps all three desperately wanting and loving each other, but wanting the other two for themselves.

Shakespeare must have realised his happiness and his misery were intertwined, and written, throbbing, to exorcise it: the universal human nature he wanted to encompass, blooming gradually to him alone. He learned to live with it, I imagine, not to claw at it and tear it, and in his own time let it go, like Prospero, with relief.

And so they lived, knowing, trying, needing, wanting, loving, hating,  gathering all the little whispers they waded in and the joys and the failures and the fears.  They set words to paper, blazing with the intensity of boats on fire in a dark ocean. They were self-loathing but idolized and envied, one but not in harmony with other beautiful, broken things in the world.