Now, I’ll begin by pointing out, clearly, that I have nothing against Mr Pratchett or his work. In fact, I believe it’s supposed to be very good. Lots and lots of friends, writers and non, have recommended his stuff to me but I will never read it. And I shall tell you why.

When I was at school I had a love/hate relationship with English teachers. Some were wonderful and got me excited about literature and words and stories. I owe them an awful lot because, indirectly, they played a big part in me becoming a writer. Mr Wilson got me all excited about Heart of Darkness and Lord of the Flies and To Kill a Mockingbird and WW1 poetry. Mrs Grant, for Chaucer. Miss Mills for The Color Purple and Oscar Wilde. Mr Andrew even made reading Kes bearable. All magnificent – and they didn’t make me feel stupid. In fact, you encouraged me, and I am hugely grateful for that.

But one almost ruined it for me. One was not encouraging. In fact, he made me feel like shit. He made me not like my favourite subject, and that’s a bad thing. AND he told me I’d never amount to anything.

And this particular teacher loved Terry Pratchett. I remember what I thought when he told us. I remember thinking: I can’t like something he likes; we’re very different people.

So I’ve never read a Pratchett book and I honestly don’t think I ever will, and all because of an experience when I was 14 or something.

It is stubborn of me, I know. And probably very silly. But that’s me.

Anyone else have any irrational and unfair literary prejudices?

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