When Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman wrote the fantasy novel Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, only Terry was well-known as a writer. By then he had written the first dozen of his humorous fantasy series set in a distant world that mimics our own called the Discworld. Neil was known only as an ex-journalist and burgeoning graphic novelist; he had just written Preludes and Nocturnes, the first in his Sandman series (Wands), which is now famous. Since then Contemporary Authors Online has commented that his “works transcend the genres in which they are written and explore deeper issues than those usually addressed in these works” (CAO). Good Omens is where the two authorial styles meet. It is a satire about the apocalypse, religion, books, movies, and just about anything else Neil and Terry could get their hands on. It begins when a cult of satanic nuns misplace the antichrist somewhere in England; they were supposed to switch him with the newborn son of the American Cultural Attaché, but instead switched him with the son of a cost accountant from Tadfield. Adam, the appropriately named antichrist, is raised human in an idyllic English countryside setting and in a brilliant farcical turn, the son of the American Cultural Attaché, Warlock, spends his childhood being tempted in turn by Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis the gardener (Gaiman and Pratchett, Good Omens 76). When the time for the apocalypse comes around everyone is puzzled when Warlock doesn’t come into his powers, whereas somewhere in Tadfield some strange things are beginning to happen. It is the job of Aziraphale the angel and Crowley the demon to locate Adam and bring about the end of the world. The problem is, they’ve been on earth since the Fall and have quite gotten to like the place. The current underlying the entire tale is one that flows through all of Neil and Terry’s works and it is best summed up by them, “most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people” (39).
When Good Omens was first published in 1990 it was panned in The New York Times as “undergraduate dreck [full of] recycled science-fiction clichés” (Queenan). The year after that it was nominated for both the Locus Award for Best Fantasy Novel and the World Fantasy Award. It has since become a “longtime cult favourite” (“EosCon”) and remains on the top of many reading lists. In 2007, it made the Young Adult Library Services Association’s Popular Paperbacks for Young Adults list; the by-line used was “Someone lost the Antichrist” (YALSA). A new edition was released with an introduction by the authors in 2006 and in 2003 it was named number 68 on The BBC Big Read’s Top 100 best-loved books (BBC). Currently, there are 9, 258 fans of the book and 384 reviews on the social book-networking website Shelfari (“Good Omens: Readers & Reviews”). The point is, no matter how many years since Good Omens has been published, it still remains popular. Terry and Neil are asked constantly if they knew they were writing a cult classic. Their response is to debate whether cult classic means that there are people who have copies that have been re-read, dropped in baths, puddles, and soup, and repaired with duct tape, putty, and string or if it means that it’s “sold millions and millions of copies around the world” (Gaiman and Pratchett, “The Facts” 405). They seem quite pleased with both outcomes, and when people are tattooing your still-wet signature onto their forearm (Gaiman and Pratchett, “Foreword” 11) then who cares about bad reviews?
In the New York Times review, Joe Queenan, the reviewer, complains that the “whole Supernatural in Your Own Backyard shtick was pretty well milked dry years ago by everyone from Woody Allen (”Mr. Big”) to Monty Python (”Life of Brian”)”, calls the popular musical group Queen “a vaudevillian rock group whose hits are buried far in the past and should have been buried sooner”, and says that “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy” was a “vastly overpraised book” (Queenan). It would be easy to say that Queenan doesn’t ‘get’ British humour, but he is, in fact, the author of a book called Queenan Country: A Reluctant Anglophile’s Pilgrimage to the Mother Country, is famous as a satirist, married to a British woman, and has fans raving about his sense of humour (Joe Queenan, “Interview”). This just shows that there are vastly different senses of humour and you can’t explain it away as a cultural difference. Besides which, the flood of accolades from the U.S. illustrates how popular Good Omens is in North America as it is in Britain and that if there are differences between a British sense of humour and an American sense of humour (an Anglo-American humour divide as it were), Queenan is the lone victim.
Good Omen’s popularity in the U.S. may also have been helped along by crafty publishers. The novel was published in a separate U.S. edition with a number of small changes. Neil jokes that in Britain the authors names are published the wrong way around (Terry is listed first) and Terry jokes that the opposite occurs in U.S. editions (Neil is listed first) (“Pratchett & Gaiman: The Double Act”); this is of course a reference to the relative popularity of each author in either country. The authors often refer to differences they had to make in this edition. They jokingly refer to the second draft of the novel, which took six months, as taking so long, in part, because they had to explain the jokes to the American publishers (Gaiman and Pratchett, “The Facts” 403). A perfect example of one of the changes made to the U.S. edition that also shows how well the book was received in the States is the 700 word addition regarding what happens to the American boy who was mistaken as the antichrist, which was added in because the U.S. audience wanted to know (“Good Omens: Annotations”).
There are numerous sources for how Good Omens was written, many of them repeat the same stories, but it’s clearly a topic of great interest to fans and journalists alike. When the new edition was published in 2006 it contained extra content about the writing of the novel, which repeatedly emphasizes the same point; the book was written by two friends for fun. They raced each other to the good bits (“Double Act”) and were pleasantly surprised when they made lots of money (Pratchett, “On Neil” 413). The initial idea began with Neil, who had an idea for the first half of a story, wrote several thousand words (“Double Act”), and sent it to his friend Terry. Neil had met Terry in 1985 while interviewing him about his first ever Discworld novel and they had quickly became friends, mostly due to a shared sense of humour and a shared love of the same obscure books (Gaiman, “On Terry” 409); something they like to call their “communal undermind” (“Double Act”). About a year after Terry had received the short story idea he phoned Neil and said that he didn’t know how the story ended, but he did know what happened next. It was originally called “William the Antichrist”, a parody on the William Brown series of books by Richmal Crompton, but quickly became a parody of just about anything they could get their hands on. Neil sums up the book as “a funny novel about the end of the world and how we’re all going to die” (Gaiman, “On Terry” 409). One of the only real problems happened early on; Neil lost the manuscript on disk, so Terry re-typed it using a hard copy that he had and changed aspects as he went (Locus). This is part of the reason why they are never sure who wrote what or how much. The other issue that they mention is one common to all humorous books; not to overdo the gags and to remind yourself that even if you’re sick of the jokes, the reader will be coming to them new (“Double Act”).
They were both living in England when they wrote the novel (Neil now lives in the States), but communicated solely through telephone and floppy disks mailed through the post (Gaiman, “Several days”). There was a brief attempt at communicating through the internet using 300/75 baud modems, but this process was described as “slightly less efficient than yodelling underwater”(Gaiman and Pratchett, “The Facts” 404). Overall, it took two months to write, with Neil writing at night and Terry in the morning, which means that “there was always someone, somewhere writing the novel” (“Double Act”). They re-wrote and footnoted each other’s sections and by the end of the second draft were running into parts where they couldn’t remember who had written what (Gaiman and Pratchett, “The Facts” 404-5) . When asked to guess though, they estimate that Terry wrote anything to do with Adam Young and his gang and Agnes Nutter and Neil wrote the Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse and anything with maggots in it (404). When it came down to themes they took responsibility for separate ones and wove them into the storyline (“Double Act”).
When Good Omens was published and went on to become such a well-loved and popular novel, no one was more surprised than the authors. They constantly stress how fun it was to write, how they raced each other to the juiciest bits, and how much they love autographing copies of the book that have been beaten beyond recognition. There are people who don’t find it funny, including some notable reviewers, but there are quite a few who re-read it, lend it to friends, and rave about it.
I am a twenty-four year old advocate for reading what you like (Harlequin, True Crime, Austen, Steven King, what you will). I graduated from Simon Fraser University in English/Humanities and am currently qualifying to become a Library Technician. My most recent job is as a bartender in a local concert hall.

Please comment on my 2nd fantasy story?
March 6th, 2010Lilka ran.
Birds cried.
Some ways ahead, she glimpsed a wooly gray cloak swish out of sight beyond a hill…Stanislaw. Her dark eyes widened in recognition.
“Stanislaw!” she chirruped. “Wait for me, my lamb! My wizard!”
The wind kissed her bonny face, tangled her skirts. She cried out in laughter and swept her arms about like pinwheels. Glitter shot from her fingertips, dusting the sky in cottony pink. Her heart drummed fast and sharp. Despite, her heart was light with an unexpected joy.
Springtime rushed past in its vivid blur. The sun bathed her face in heat, made her inky locks shine rosily. Daffodils and poppies carpeted the grass under her bare feet. She danced among them like a flower herself, all springy and glowing. Shade from the surrounding maple trees dappled everything spotty. Magenta Prairie was stunning.
She flew down the hillock, chasing that silver cloak. But alas! Stanislaw was not to be found. Where was he? She pondered it for a second. He had to be close by, perhaps behind a tree. Or mayhap he had magicked himself invisible! She sprinted faster in fervent pursuit, so fast that the world disappeared. Pale sapphire was the sky. Red and yellow specks blistered under her eager feet.
“Lilka!” It was his voice!
“Are you there?”
Lilka came to a jittery stop, dizzy. Her legs felt like jelly. Sweat dampened her neck. One thing she knew for certain: she had run forever. Forever constituted…eighteen long and desolate years? Yes, she was eighteen. How had time slid past her so slyly? Ten years ago seemed nonexistent, even five…thirteen was none so complicated as eighteen, especially for a woman. Then the world lurched, rotated…looked gauzelike….
“I’m right here! Open your eyes, fool-lady!” It was her sweetheart again, talking to her from nowhere.
“Where are you?” she yelled breathlessly, getting more frustrated by the second.
But there was no time to be angry. The world was spinning too fast, spiraling into nothingness. Her heart had stopped beating so fiercely. In fact, now it hardly beat at all. She felt made of wood. Each eyelid weighed millions. She couldn’t lift them, couldn’t lift this nightmarish daze. Fear and trepidation goggled through her veins, gripped her with their vise-like hands.
Then, suddenly, the soles of her feet collided into something waxy and velvety. Had she been flying? She certainly hadn’t felt anything solid under her feet since everything sped up so wild.
Lilka gazed. Far and wide, a sea of blooms scoured the land: ruby-petaled poppy bulbs and sunny, bold daffodils. They shimmered beautifully. Next, her head dropped and she gazed no more. Black hair pushed itself around her face. It had lost its auburn sheen.
In truth, the entire of Magenta Prairie had lost its luster. Clusters of maple trees, once so green and verdant, faded to a chalky stain. Pastel powder piled up on the brittle branches. The perfectly blue sky fell away to rows of milky haze. This fog dispersed itself doggedly, fluttering like a disease, infectious among the lovely blossoms. Lilka could no longer see the cheerful red and yellow heads. She no longer heard the shrieks of birdsong; no longer saw the glorious golden sun. It nearly broke her heart, seeing the fairytale land crumble.
In all this uproar of nature, she had squeezed her eyes shut. Cool scuttled across her face, danced upon her eyelashes and froze them. The temperature dropped severely. White flakes wheeled from the heavens, zigzagging in the still air.
“No, my fairy story…you don’t exist, don’t survive,” she told herself, with eyes still screwed shut. “Nothing’s here, I’m not really here either.”
Even life, capricious though it was, couldn’t play such an imaginary trick as this.
Lilka opened her frozen eyes. Her bare feet were dusted in a fine layer of snow. Yet they were not cold, not even wet.
“Lilka, what’s the matter…?” a blurry voice cried out, shocking in its concern. It whispered, “Awaken.”
Then she closed her eyes again. A shiver raced up her body.
The voice said, “Snow is harmless for the most part, anyways.”
***
When Lilka did at last awaken, it was to the horrid sound of scraping. Digging…the iron clunk of a shovel.
“What’s going on?” she said, her words jumbled like potpourri.
She was cold, freezing cold. Goosebumps pricked their way up her arms and legs. All around was the blinding white glow of snow. Above stretched a black cobweb of tree branches. They were blanketed in sleeves of snow. For a confused second, she wondered if she was still dreaming.
“No, I’m awake,” she told herself resolutely.
“Ah yes, you are,” a voice said.
Lilka pushed herself up on her elbows. She wore a snowy white robe. The sleeves were lace-edged and billowy. Gently, she brushed her fingers across the fabric. It was dry…dry and stiff. However, underneath, she wore a thick black gown. Its woolen material had soaked up much of the melting snow, and thus was slightly damp.
“Who s-said that?” she swept h
“Who s-said that?” she swept her frost-dusted hair off her shoulders and gazed about for who had spoken. When she didn’t see him immediately, she whispered, “Stanislaw?”
“Miss, I’m not Stanislaw and I’ve no idea what’s going on,” he spoke again.
Still he remained invisible.
Now a little bothered by this whole act, she scrambled to her feet and flapped her robe and gown to rid them of powder. “Show yourself! I know you’re there…this is no dream!”
To her great surprise, a man stepped from behind a knotted bush….
Lilka nearly jumped from her skin and bones. It was awful. It was awful the way he looked at her, the way his cold eyes drilled into hers, awful the way he sauntered towards her catlike. Long black hair fell over his face to shroud his eyes silent. However, the way he walked was still horrid. It was slow and menacing, predatory and stalking.
“What do you want, M-mister?” she cried. “I beg of you, don’t hurt me!”
“Aye, don’ hur’ the girl, Atanazy…” A woman’s voice this time
“Aye, don’ hur’ the girl, Atanazy…” A woman’s voice this time…
Lilka leapt into the air in a strange, wild fright. She nearly stumbled and her eyes kept darting about madly. This was a nightmare…she must still be asleep. After all, was she being cornered? Did this sinister man before her have companions just as wicked?
“Y-yes,” she stammered in a soft voice, “I’m a-asleep, it’s only a nightmare, only a….”
Then everything happened so unbelievably fast that Lilka could hardly keep up with it all. The dark-haired one, with a twisted smile afflicting his face, kept sauntering towards her. His fleecy black boots cut deep circles in the frost. The velvet cloak he wore—it was pine green, not gray—slipped across the snow, bobbing behind him.
But that was not the fast part….
Someone burst from a snow pile in an explosion of white powder. With skinny, gloved fingers outstretched and blonde hair unruly, she rushed at the man like a killer.
“You better stop!” she screamed. “You demon!”
Wi
With that, she leapt on top of him and pulled them both to the ground. Buried deep in the snow, Lilka had a hard time seeing anything. She was nearly frozen with shock. What on earth was going on?
Snow and fleece and dark hair flew like fabric in a sewing mill. Lilka saw only seconds of the fury: the blonde lady’s face, marred by her seething expression…the man’s scowl, sharp white teeth and red mouth…torn emerald velvet….
The blonde lady, noticeably exasperated, stopped suddenly. Pinned helplessly into the drifts of snow, the man had not a chance. She had a gloved hand pressed around his forearm, the other clapped over his mouth, and her knees on top of his thighs. A fiendish grin slit her face and she pulled something glittery from a pocket. Lilka strained to see, for she had taken several steps backward in alarm. Was that a knife? Whatever the object was, the man clearly grew very frightened. His distressed mumbles and violent movements choked up Lilka’s senses. She bit her lip in
She bit her lip in sorrow, torn between two sides. Dark tears welled in her big eyes.
Gripping it tight, the lady drew back the shiny thing and, with a terrible slowness, plunged it forward. Lilka pinched her eyes together and wrung her hands, hopping in circles and feeling sick.
“Aha! Victory for me!” came the woman’s shrill cry. “You girl! Come here and see! Come to reap the wonders of a victory well met!”
But Lilka had started to cry. She submerged her face in the dry white lace of her robe. She stared into the soft darkness. Hot tears surged in her eyes. They met her tongue and tasted salty. Her face felt tense, her emotions prickly.
“Why?” she sobbed thickly. “Why? Why?”
Quiet, tentative footsteps penetrated her lacy shelter. Lilka smelled something metallic…and beyond that, something mild and sweet. However, she only wept harder. She wept loudly and recklessly.
Tags: Blur, comment, Daffodils, Dark Eyes, Eager Feet, Fantasy, Fantasy Story, Fingertips, Glitter, Gray Cloak, Hillock, Lamb, Laughter, Maple Trees, Out Of Sight, please, Poppies, Sapphire, Silver Cloak, Skirts, Springtime, story, Sweetheart, Yellow Specks
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