Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Geek Punditry #171: You’ll Figure it Out On the Way

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Recently, on the advice of – and this is a rough estimate so please forgive me if I leave somebody off this list – everybody, I picked up Matt Dinniman’s LitRPG novel Dungeon Crawler Carl. I’ve never read a LitRPG before, but a lot of people whose options I highly value told me over and over again what a great book this was and that I needed to check it out or watch my Geek Cred stats rapidly plummet. And I must concede, that first book really grabbed me.

My friends just know how wild I go over “crawling” fiction.

From what I can tell, LitRPG is a subgenre of sci-fi and fantasy in which the story emulates traits of a typical roleplaying game, including having the characters’ stats and levels prominently featured and even included in the plot. In the case of Dungeon Crawler Carl, these stats and levels come as Carl and his ex-girlfriend’s cat, Princess Donut, are forced to risk their lives over and over again in a massive global dungeon with the entirety of the human race – at least those who are still alive – hanging in the balance. If that doesn’t sound like a riot, I should remind you all that Douglas Adams chose to begin his Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series by blowing up Earth, so an apocalyptic comedy is by no means unexplored territory. And Dinniman handles it extremely well. I admit, when I started reading the book I expected the conclusion of the Dungeon Crawler story to come by the end of the first volume, and I wondered what the follow-up would be that would extend the series to seven installments (so far, at least – the latest word is that the series will wrap up in volume ten). I was quite surprised, then, as I progressed through the novel and realized, at the pace we were going, there was no way in hell the story would be finished in one book, and Carl’s singular quest through the dungeons would, so it appears, be the entire series.

After reading some massive doorstoppers early this year, I was pleasantly surprised not only by how entertaining the adventures of Carl and Donut turned out to be, but also by just how quickly I whipped through the first novel. After spending the better part of a month on Stephen King’s It, I finished the first Carl book in less than a week. I informed some of my friends who recommended it to me in a group chat the day after I finished reading book one, and one of them told me that book eight is scheduled for release next month, May.

“I doubt I’ll make it through seven books by May,” I said.

“Yeah, you will,” he replied.

And damned if it’s not possible. When I picked up the second volume this week, I got through roughly a quarter of it in the first day, an almost unheard of chunk of novel in a modern era in which my valuable reading time is often stolen by such frivolous things as going to work, driving a car, and parenting. But I quickly noticed something unusual about the second book, Carl’s Doomsday Scenario. Most of the time, when you get to the second installment of a series, there’s a bit of an effort to restack the world for the audience – reminding them of things that happened in part one, re-explaining the rules of the world, and otherwise attempting to bring them up to speed in case there’s anybody just joining in for the first time. This is pretty common in fiction of all types. TV shows with serialized storylines will frequently begin with a “Previously on…” segment. Movie sequels will usually have some brief lip service where the characters recap the events of the first film, even if doing so makes little sense in context. Comic books make frequent use of flashbacks. 

The idea here is that there’s always the chance that there’s someone joining the audience NOW – somebody who has not seen the earlier episodes or read the earlier books, and therefore needs a little help so they don’t get lost. There was a point in the 80s when Jim Shooter, then Editor-In-Chief of Marvel Comics, issued a company-wide rule that every character be referred to by name when they first appeared in each issue, just to make sure a theoretical new reader could tell who’s who. The spirit of the policy made sense, but in terms of writing, this would often result in clunky panels with inorganic dialogue. This was never demonstrated better than the infamous “Mouseketeer Roll Call” Shooter himself wrote in the pages of Marvel’s first major crossover event, Secret Wars, when dozens of heroes and villains who had just been kidnapped and brought to the other end of the universe by a cosmic deity stopped the action, stood in a line, and identified themselves.

The Wasp and the Thing are at opposite ends, both of the panel, and in terms of the spectrum of humility.

Dinniman, however, makes absolutely zero attempt to recap the story for new readers. Although Carl’s Doomsday Scenario begins with a new Chapter One, it may as well have just continued the numbering from the previous book, because it picks up just seconds later and makes every presumption that the reader is up-to-date. It doesn’t recap part one, doesn’t explain the logic of this universe, and pretty much just goes on as if Dinniman is quite confident that anybody who is reading Doomsday Scenario will also have read Dungeon Crawler Carl, so why bother? It was temporarily jarring even for me, somebody who had just finished book one a week earlier, when Carl started getting messages from somebody named “Brandon” that had not been mentioned before in this book and I had to go back and remind myself who he was. 

I defy anybody to find evidence in this image that this book is a sequel. You can’t, can you? Because you’re too busy looking at the cat in the tiara, that’s why.

The style of storytelling in which a recap is expected…in some ways, it’s kind of a relic of a bygone era. It made a lot of sense in the days when a TV series aired one episode a week and if you missed it, you just missed it and hoped you could catch a rerun over the summer. In these days of binge-watching, when you can start a series from episode one no matter how many episodes have been made, and when the streaming service will roll right into the next episode after you finish it, it’s not nearly as important as it used to be. It’s still a little more necessary in other forms of storytelling, but not always. In movies like those in the Marvel Cinematic Universe – particularly the upcoming Avengers: Doomsday – we should expect a certain amount of recap because it’s unreasonable to presume every audience member will be intimately familiar with the details of the past three decades of Marvel movies and television, especially since the former Fox X-Men universe is being folded into the multiverse of the MCU. But James Gunn’s Superman launched a whole universe in the middle of a story and figured – correctly – that there was no need to go over Superman’s origin yet again because everybody should be familiar with it at this point. A few title cards at the very beginning told us everything we could possibly need to know.

But what about episodic storytelling like comic books? Shooter’s rule – even when it was executed poorly – made a lot of sense in an era where it was presumed that every issue was potentially somebody’s FIRST issue. Comic books aren’t really written that way anymore. Most series – even so-called “ongoing” series – are given a certain number of issues to tell a story (although this exact number is often undisclosed to the reader it is typically low – maybe five or six issues at a time). If the series sells well enough, it will be renewed for another number of issues, then another, until either it becomes unprofitable or the creative team finishes all of the stories they had planned. With this structure, even as comic book sales are on the rise, it’s reasonable to assume that the number of people jumping into a series on issue #8 is relatively slim. But we WANT new readers, so there has to be a way to make it accessible without alienating the existing audience.

And there is, and it’s a simple way. Marvel Comics have long had a policy of including a “previously” page at the beginning of each issue, recapping the story to date and showing headshots of the major characters. It serves the same purpose as Shooter’s old rule, but it’s not intrusive into the story itself. Somebody who hasn’t been reading along can use the page to get into the saddle, but faithful readers can easily skip it if they wish. It’s a sensible policy, and other publishers (DC included) have slowly gotten into the habit of incorporating similar pages in their own comic books, although I wish it would become more standard. 

I mean, without this page how would you ever know the Scarlet Witch is a witch?

With prose books, we’ve got an interesting sort of mix of possible readers. On the one hand, if somebody is an ebook reader, it would make little sense to begin in the middle of a series. If you’re browsing the Kindle store and a book sounds interesting, it’s usually labelled as something like “Book 2 in the Dungeon Crawler Carl series,” with a handy link to look at all the books in the series at once so you can get them all and start from the beginning. But for a print reader who gets these books browsing a brick-and-mortar store, it’s not always as clear. Not every series is clearly labeled as such on the cover, and even if it is, there can’t always be a 100 percent guarantee that the store will have the earlier volumes in stock on the day you pick up volume three while you’re casually browsing. 

Many of us have fallen victim to this at some point or another. Back in middle school I was poking through the shelves at our Scholastic Book Fair (if you’re someone that just got a little thrill of excitement at those words, you are my kinda people) when I saw a book with the fascinating title The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. I picked it up and I read the back cover, and it sounded interesting. So I bought the book, brought it home, devoured it, loved it…and THEN I discovered that it was actually the sequel to a novel called Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Had I noticed that parts of it were a little confusing the first time I read it? Sure. But my seventh-grade self already was aware that there were jokes and references I didn’t quite understand (I did not have an encyclopedic knowledge of British politics and popular culture circa 1980, believe it or not), so when there seemed to be something missing I assumed that gaps in my knowledge could be attributed to that, rather than the fact that I’d skipped an entire book.

And even if I DID notice, based on this cover, I would have thought the book I missed was Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency.

In Dinniman’s case, the lack of recap makes more sense when you learn that the series originated on the online platform Royal Road, which allows writers to serialize their fiction. The Carl series was not originally written in book form, but in this more episodic format, and when the decision was made to publish it as a book series Dinniman basically chose where to end each volume based on a point where a logical pause happened rather than necessarily having it planned out as a ten-volume series. That kind of planning seems to have crept in later, as the book went from a popular online fic to a publishing juggernaut, but it wasn’t baked in from the beginning, and the book version reflects this. 

(Personal side-note: I’d never heard of Royal Road before I began digging into the backstory of Dungeon Crawler Carl and I feel the need to look deeper into this system. I’ve been thinking about looking for a new way to serialize my own work ever since the demise of Kindle Vella, and this seems like a far more stable outlet.)

The recap thing is a trope in storytelling, and although I can understand why it may be frustrating for people who are devoted followers of a particular series, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. It serves a purpose, and if it allows a story to be opened up to a larger potential audience, that’s a net positive. It just needs to be done in an unobtrusive way. “Previously” pages in comics or even in novels are a good way to do it, and although lacking one doesn’t hurt anyone’s enjoyment of the series at all, I’m surprised that Dinniman didn’t include one in Doomsday Scenario.

At the very least, publishers, make it damn clear on the cover or spine of a book if it’s part of a series. Numbers are your friends.

Blake M. Petit is a writer, teacher, and dad from Ama, Louisiana. His most recent writing project is the superhero adventure series Other People’s Heroes: Little Stars, volume one of which is now available on Amazon. He’s also started putting his LitReel videos on TikTok. Seriously, go read the first part of Little Stars, because he’s working on polishing part two. He needs people to stare at him and ask him when it will be finished. 

Geek Punditry #67: What Is Literature?

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When you’re a high school teacher and spend most of your day around teenagers, you will overhear their conversations whether you like it or not. You hear about the TikToking, and you know who is dating who, and on frequent occasions you learn more about the way these kids spend their weekends than you ever want to know and you contemplate duct-taping your own children to a pool table from the time they’re 13 until they turn 27 or so. And on rare, extremely rare occasions, you’ll hear them discuss things that are actually relevant to your class. Earlier this week, for instance, I overheard a few girls talking about why so many people are using The Great Gatsby as themes for parties and dances these days. 

As always happens when there’s a conversation worth joining, I jumped in. “There are three reasons,” I said. “First of all, it’s the 20s again, so people are playing with that. Second, the book went into public domain a few years ago, so nobody has to pay to use these things. And third, there are a lot of people who think the movie is fun and didn’t actually pay attention when they were supposed to be reading the book.”

“Ain’t no party like a Gatsby party, ’cause a Gatsby party ends with three people dead and a complete loss of faith in the American dream!”

The Great Gatsby is, of course, a seminal work of American literature. It’s one of the best books ever written in this country, and it paints a complex and gripping narrative in a relatively short number of pages, but the book is about the unsatisfying nature of a decadent lifestyle and how pursuit of material things is shallow and destructive. Anybody who comes away from that book thinking that these characters are something to aspire towards is – and I’m going to be kind here – an utter moron.

I talked about this conversation with some of my English teacher friends (of course I have English teacher friends – we sit around and conjugate each other’s verbs and talk about which infinitives we’re crushing on) and discussed the fact that there aren’t a lot of books that we teach that provide role models or, for that matter, happy endings. Let’s face it, most books that are complicated enough for a really deep literary analysis tend towards tragic – or at best, bittersweet – endings. The least-depressing book I’ve ever used in my classroom is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and that book BEGINS with the complete destruction of the planet Earth. And one of my friends in this chat commented that this is why she sticks to reading lighthearted stuff on her own time – “literature” is too depressing.

Whaddaya gonna do? You’ve got to build bypasses.

I’ve always thought it was odd to use the word “literature” as a genre, the way I would “science fiction” or “horror.” What, exactly, qualifies something as a work of literature? Every time I walk into a bookstore with a “literature” section, I want to ask somebody who decides which books go on those shelves and which ones do not? Isn’t the very existence of a “literature” section sort of a low-key insult to all of the other books in the store that got shelved somewhere else? Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea goes on the literature shelves whereas William Goldman’s The Princess Bride doesn’t, but I could write you a whole dissertation on which one is a better book, and it ain’t the Hemingway.

One of these is one of the most incredible stories ever conceived by the human mind and the other one is what happens when Ernest Hemingway doesn’t go to therapy.

Is it just the age of the work? Everyone would agree that Lord of the Flies from 1954 is a great work of literature. But what about Robert Heinlein’s Rocket Ship Galileo, published in 1947? It’s not only a book that doesn’t enter the “great literature” discussion, it’s not even usually part of the conversation when you talk specifically about the work of Robert Heinlein. We got George Orwell’s 1984 in 1948, nearly twenty years after the first Nancy Drew novel, The Secret of the Old Clock, but nobody is citing the works of Carolyn Keene in the conversation of great writers. And that’s not just because she didn’t actually exist.

Is it just about the complexity of the work? Must a work deal with heavy ideas and deep themes to qualify? The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn gets my personal vote for the greatest American novel ever written (sorry, F. Scott Fitzgerald). Set 20 years before the Civil War but written about 20 years afterwards, the novel is a deep and fascinating analogy about the changes the country went through during that time period. Whereas Mark Twain’s earlier book with these characters (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer) was a simple boy’s adventure story, Huckleberry Finn is about a child struggling with the ethical quandary of whether it is morally right to help his friend Jim escape from slavery. Jim’s owner, Miss Watson, has taken care of Huck, and in the eyes of the law he is betraying her by helping in Jim’s escape. But eventually, he comes to the conclusion that he’s going to be loyal to his friend, even if it goes against the law, even if it goes against what he has been taught is morally right. The book deals with the destructive nature of bigotry, ignorance, and hypocrisy, and Huck himself becomes symbolic of the moral transmogrification that the United States was beginning to undergo. In other words, literature.

The thing is, though, a lot of these same ideas and themes can also be found in random episodes of Star Trek. If I pull out Oliver Crawford’s script for “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield,” I can get into a deep conversation about the folly of racism as we watch two aliens whose species has hunted itself to extinction because some of them are black and white whereas others are white and black. It’s a legendary episode, but could I justifiably call the script for it literature the same way I would Huck Finn or – to use the other best-known example of anti-racist literature – To Kill a Mockingbird? Most people would say no. 

“I dunno, Frank, are you sure the analogy isn’t too subtle?”

I posed this question, this “what is literature” question, to my English pals, and one of them said she once looked it up herself and read one of the characteristics that makes something literature is a focus on character and their development rather than plot. Does that really work, though? Gatsby is a very deep examination of the characters, but none of them actually CHANGE. By the end of the book, they (the ones that survive, anyway) are all the same shallow, soulless people they were when the story began and only the narrator – the criminally bland Nick Carroway – has shown any development at all, that development being disgust at the people around him. It’s like you’re left feeling when you watch the final episode of Seinfeld. 

On the other hand, my friend pointed out, the male lead in Fifty Shades of Grey seems to change by the end of that series, becoming actually devoted to the narrator. I’ll let you draw your own conclusion as to whether this qualifies as development or not, I haven’t read Fifty Shades. But if there’s one thing everyone in our English chat can agree on, it’s that Fifty Shades of Grey does NOT qualify as literature.

I want to be clear here: I haven’t seen the movies, nor read most of the books. I’ve read exactly one page, the first one, in a bookstore. I was curious as to what the big deal was, and after reading one page I said – out loud – “Oh good LORD,” and put it down. It’s not that the book is smut. If you want to read smut, go right ahead, I don’t judge you for it at all. I will, however, judge you for reading such POORLY WRITTEN smut when there is smut of much better quality readily available. I’m not telling you not to read Fifty Shades because it’s explicit, I’m telling you not to read it because you deserve better smut.

Not pictured: Literature.
Or believable characters, genuine titillation, or a functional understanding of the culture it purports to depict.

Is it the fact that something is “highbrow” what makes it literature? Well that comes with the same problem as designating something literature in the first place: who decides? To pull the Shakespeare card again, my students are ALWAYS intimidated when we start reading Hamlet because they think of Shakespeare as something for “thinky” people. Sure, that may be the way he’s considered today, but in his own time, Shakespeare was a popular writer. He was turning out play after play for the masses, and because he knew exactly what the people wanted, he loaded them with sex and violence. He was the J.J. Abrams of the 16th century. The kids don’t get that, though. If you understand what he’s actually saying, Hamlet’s line “Do you think I meant country matters?” is just as raunchy (and way more clever) than anything E.L. James wrote, but in all my years of teaching the play I’ve never had a student pick up on the subtext. Only a few of them get the later, more obvious line when Claudius is seeking Polonius’s corpse and Hamlet tells him Polonius is, “in heaven…if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’th’other place yourself.” Every so often I have a kid who asks, “Did he just tell the king to go to Hell?” and that student automatically becomes my favorite.

“I don’t look thoughtful enough. Give me 20 percent more confetti.”

The bar can’t be whether something makes you think. Last week I finished reading Liu Cixin’s novel The Three Body Problem, and that’s one of the thinkiest dang books I’ve ever read. The book follows a large cast of characters who discover a secret organization attempting to prepare Earth to be conquered by extraterrestrial invaders. This is, I must stress, an extremely barebones description of the plot, and deliberately so. This story is far deeper and more complicated than my pitiable attempt to summarize it. In fact, if someone tried to argue that it’s the best science fiction novel of the 21st century so far, I will have absolutely no ammunition with which to disagree with them. This Chinese novel was originally serialized in 2006, published as a novel in 2008, and first published in English in 2014, so no matter which edition you’ve read, it’s less than 18 years old. As such, it’s not something that I hear come into the conversation when people discuss “literature.” Not YET, anyway. Come back in 20 or 30 years and that may well change. But is it only the relative youth of the book that keeps it off the table?

Not pictured: Literature, but ask me again in 2056.

Maybe it’s a combination of all of these things. Maybe “literature” has to be deep AND intelligent AND kind of old. Maybe all these things that we now call “literature” are only in that category because they’re the best examples of their time period and we’ve forgotten 90 percent of the utter crap that was written around the same time. That’s not only possible, I think the further back in the history of storytelling you go it becomes almost undeniable. The poet W.H. Auden once said,“Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered,” and by this I think he was trying to tell us that people will hopefully still be reading The Three Body Problem in the year 2100, whereas by then hopefully the only people who remember 50 Shades of Gray will be literary historians who cannot figure out why readers were so temporarily obsessed with a piece of mediocre Twilight fan fiction.

Increasingly, when it comes to the question of literature, I find myself using the late Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart’s description of “obscenity.” Unable to actually define the term, he simply said, “I know it when I see it.” That’s how I feel about literature, too. But my opinion, of course, doesn’t count for more or less than anybody else’s.

Except for that guy shelving the “literature” section at Barnes and Noble. He apparently holds a little more sway than the rest of us.

Blake M. Petit is a writer, teacher, and dad from Ama, Louisiana. His most recent writing project is the superhero adventure series Other People’s Heroes: Little Stars, now complete on Amazon’s Kindle Vella platform. He doesn’t know if anyone would ever call the new trilogy version of that series, beginning with Little Stars Book One: Twinkle Twinkle, “literature,” but he DOES know it will be available in both paperback and ebook beginning on May 4, and he is CRAZY excited about it.

Geek Punditry #55: Terry, the Turtle, and a World Full of Magic

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Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, as I’ve mentioned many times, is one of my favorite stories ever written. King is often thought of as a horror novelist, and he is, but The Dark Tower is more of a fantasy series, encompassing multiple worlds, wizards, magic artifacts, and a cowboy. And it was because of my love for his series that I was interested in Robert Silverberg’s Legends anthology when it was released way back in 1998. In this anthology, several popular writers were invited to contribute a novella set in their most famous fantasy universe. King contributed The Little Sisters of Eluria, a prequel that told a story about Roland of Gilead in the early years of his quest. There were other writers involved, of course, some I was familiar with and others I wasn’t. I loved Orson Scott Card’s sci-fi novel Ender’s Game, but I hadn’t read any of his Tales of Alvin Maker before. I’d heard of The Wheel of Time, but I’d never touched on Robert Jordan. And while the name George R.R. Martin was totally unfamiliar to me, I rather liked The Hedge Knight, the prequel to something called Game of Thrones, and I thought I would have to check it out some time.

I can’t help but think that, were this published today, Raymond E. Feist would be bumped off the cover to make room for that Martin fella.

But of the new (to me) writers that I discovered via the Legends anthology, none resonated so clearly as the unique and inimitable voice of Terry Pratchett. In The Sea and Little Fishes, a group of witches tried to dissuade a force of nature named Granny Weatherwax from participating in their annual “witch trials” because everyone was tired of losing to her. The concept was far sillier than the other books in the anthology. As it turned out, it was more memorable too. 

The Sea and Little Fishes, I learned, belonged to Pratchett’s Discworld series, and over the next few years, I would find myself drawn to the Disc time and time again. The Discworld is exactly what it sounds like: a planet that’s actually flat, carried through the endless expanse of space upon the backs of four enormous elephants, which in turn stand upon the back of a gargantuan turtle, the Great A’Tuin, that drifts through the cosmos. On Discworld, magic is so plentiful as to be almost a tangible element, and is far more dangerous because of that. The Discworld is what you get when you line up every fantasy universe, mythology, and religion in existence, break them with a hammer, and don’t pay attention to what you’re doing when you’re putting the pieces back together. It is an absolute delight.

This is the world as Kyrie Irving imagines it.

After reading the installment from Legends, Pratchett’s name stood out to me, and I kept it in mind the next time I went to the mall (kids, ask your parents) and rushed down to B. Dalton Bookseller (kids, ask your parents). When I went to the fantasy section, I was taken aback to realize that there were over a dozen Discworld novels, and I had no idea where to begin. Remember, this was 1998, and we didn’t all have a device in our pockets that we can use to access the full totality of human knowledge but instead use to watch stupid videos of morons doing a “spontaneous” dance routine in a grocery store. Unsure of where to start, I picked the book that looked most appealing. It was nearly Christmas at the time, the novel was called Hogfather, and the cover had red and white stripes and a guy in a sleigh. It was worth a shot.

HO. HO. HO.

I mentioned Hogfather here last month, calling the TV adaptation one of the best fantasy Christmas movies there is. What I had no way of knowing was that Hogfather was totally the wrong book to begin my Discworld journey. The story was about the Hogfather (Fantasy Santa Claus) getting murdered by a guy named Teatime and replaced by Death himself (HUH?), while Death’s granddaughter (DOUBLE HUH?) Susan (QUADRUPLE HUH?) tries to solve the mystery of what happened to the ol’ fat man. I would learn later that this was actually the twentieth book in the Discworld series and the fourth in which Death was one of the principal characters. It was insane. It was confusing. I had no idea what was going on.

And yet, I loved every page.

Terry Pratchett had a gift for words, a way of turning a phrase that no other writer in my experience can match. Hogfather, for instance, included the following exchange when Death tried to leave a small child a weapon as a present:

‘You can’t give her that!’ she screamed. ‘It’s not safe!’
IT’S A SWORD, said the Hogfather. THEY’RE NOT MEANT TO BE SAFE.
‘She’s a child!’ shouted Crumley.
IT’S EDUCATIONAL.
‘What if she cuts herself?’
THAT WILL BE AN IMPORTANT LESSON.

See? Genius.

Other bon mots that Pratchett provided us with over the years include “Multiple exclamation marks are a sure sign of a diseased mind,” “That just goes to show that you never know, although what it is we never know I suspect we’ll never know,” and “A good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.” The man painted with words the way Van Gogh used colors, and his paintings were no less elaborate. 

I learned, eventually, that while it was true that Hogfather was the wrong book to begin reading Discworld, it’s also true that EVERY book is the wrong book to begin reading Discworld. The entire universe – which expanded to a full 41 books by the time Pratchett died in 2015 – is an enormous, brilliant, glorious mess of time and space and trolls and vampires and witches and wizards and monsters and a set of luggage that runs behind its owner on hundreds of tiny little legs. There is absolutely no correct order to read these books in, and you’re just as well off throwing a dart in the fantasy section as you would be attempting to read the books in publication order.

This image is different every time you look at it.

When I first began to wade into the Discworld books, my immediate response was to compare them to the works of Douglas Adams, writer of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. It was a fair enough comparison – they were both British authors, they both used a sort of parody of a traditional genre universe as a setting for satire, and they seemed to have a lot of overlap in their senses of humor. It also didn’t hurt that Adams was the only other British humorist I was familiar with in those days, having devoured all of the Hitchhiker’s books time and again. In fact, in conversation it was not uncommon for me to describe Discworld as the fantasy equivalent of Hitchhiker’s Guide.

As I got older and read deeper into Pratchett’s catalog, though, that comparison felt less and less apt. The truth was – much as it would pain high school Blake to hear this – Pratchett’s work outpaces Adams in a lot of ways. And one of the biggest reasons for that, I believe, is that Pratchett branched out, whereas Adams did not. In the Hitchhiker’s series, Adams stuck pretty closely to the adventures of Arthur Dent and the assorted weirdos who came into his orbit. (The only Adams-penned Hitchhiker’s story I’m aware of in which Arthur is not the central character is the short story “Young Zaphod Plays it Safe,” although I’m sure someone will correct me if there are others.) And after a while, it became clear that Adams was getting kind of tired of it. The first two books in the series were essentially adaptations of Adams’s radio drama of the same name upon which the series was based. The third book – as I would learn many years later – was a reworking of one of his scripts for Doctor Who that had not been produced. Book four was pretty good, with a more personal story for Arthur that brought him to a kind, sweet conclusion, and then came a fifth book that undid Arthur’s happy ending in the same sense that an 18-wheeler barrelling down the highway will “undo” a tower of playing cards that someone inconveniently left out in the middle of the road. Adams was a cynical person, and a certain bitterness crept into that last book in a way that ended the series on an unsatisfying note. Even Adams himself wasn’t satisfied with it and was planning a sixth book when he passed away, which is really the only reason I accept Eoin Colfer’s follow-up, And Another Thing…, as series canon.

(This, by the way, will not happen to Pratchett. Upon his death his daughter – as per his request – took his hard drive full of his notes and unfinished stories and had it crushed by a steamroller to make sure no one else could continue his work. No, really. So that’s it for new Discworld stuff, at least until the far future when it comes face to face with our old pal Public Domain.)

Most writers only think about using one of these on the critics.

But back to Pratchett. Whereas Adams seemed to get bored with his creation, stagnating with Arthur Dent and company despite having all of time and space to play with, Pratchett realized by book three that he should take advantage of his entire sandbox. After two books about the wizard Rincewind, the third novel in the series, Equal Rites, was an adventure of Granny Weatherwax, she who would later turn up in the novella that introduced me to Pratchett in the first place. This was followed by Mort, the first story where Death was a main character, although he’d appeared in the others. Over the course of the 41 books, Pratchett developed at least seven different subsets of characters that he would follow from time to time, as well as devoting several novels to one-off characters and storylines. And while these various subsets could and did cross over and interact, there were so many of them that it would have been impossible to grow bored. Unlike the Hitchhiker’s series, there is no one single “main character” in the Discworld, and that’s all to the good. 

In fact, the only character that I think even appears in every novel is Death, and I’m not even 100 percent sure about that. You see, I haven’t read all the books yet. I’ve gotten through roughly half of them. It’s a common problem of mine – when I get into something I really like I try to read (or watch or whatever) everything that’s available, but it’s only a matter of time before I come across something ELSE I really like, and now I’ve got TWO series I’m trying to keep up with, and then I discover another author, and then there’s a new book in a series that I thought was over ten years ago, and before you know it, there’s so many things I haven’t read that I’m never going to finish before I go off to follow Pratchett to the land beyond the Disc. Regular book readers know exactly what I’m talking about, but in case anyone thinks I’m exaggerating, I actually keep a spreadsheet of what series and authors I am currently reading and what books I haven’t gotten to yet. At the moment I am alternating between going through all of the Discworld novels, all of Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson universe, Scott Sigler’s Galactic Football League and assorted spinoffs, every official Oz novel, every UNofficial Oz novel, Orson Scott Card’s Enderverse, the Wild Card novels, the various series that connect to Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series, approximately 4000 Star Trek books, and the complete works of Stephen King. Fans of George R.R. Martin don’t realize how lucky they are. Sure, you may never finish the series, but that’s gonna be GEORGE’S fault, not because YOU were poor at managing your time. 

If I’ve got any shot at finishing my reading list this year, this is going to have to be June.

But Sir Terry (given the Order of the British Empire in 1998, the same year I discovered him, although admittedly, this was probably a coincidence) deserves all of the attention. He was a genius, he was an artist, and he’s probably the funniest British human being to never be a member of Monty Python. So it’s time I buckle down and finish my trip across the Disc.

The good news is, that just got a little bit easier. You may be familiar with Humblebundle, the online retailer that offers digital packages of books, games, and software at a massive markdown with some of the money earmarked for assorted charities. It’s a way to get a lot of content for a low price, and I’ve purchased many a selection of books and graphic novels there, which only exacerbates my problem of having entirely too many things to read and not nearly enough time to do it, although I maintain that as vices go, that one is far preferable to, say, methamphetamines. Humblebundle is currently offering a bundle of almost the entire Discworld series, $400 worth of books, for as low as $18 (although you have the option to pay less for fewer books or pay more to give more support). The money for this bundle is going towards Room to Read, a charity that promotes literacy amongst young children, and if you can name a better use for that money I’ll jump off the edge of the Disc. If you haven’t experienced the glory of Terry Pratchett before, here’s your chance to do so for pennies. And if you have, here’s a way to finish the journey, or start it all over again. But the bundle is only available until Feb. 1, so don’t get stuck like the water in the River Ankh. It’s a good cause, and it’s a great read – get to it.

Blake M. Petit is a writer, teacher, and dad from Ama, Louisiana. His current writing project is the superhero adventure series Other People’s Heroes: Little Stars, a new episode of which is available every Wednesday on Amazon’s Kindle Vella platform. He thinks maybe he’ll read Snuff next. Or maybe Unseen Academicals. Or maybe A Hat Full of Sky. Ugh, this is hard.