Small Gods - Blog Posts
So I'm of the belief that one of the finest things in life is a well loved book. A book with yellowed pages and a weathered spine, clear water/tea/coffee damage... That comes with time.
Usually you have to get those books firsthand and weather them down to that point yourself, or possibly find it at a library sale or a garage sale.
But occasionally. Occasionally someone will see you reading a book and say "I have something for you" before handing you something so rare, so important.
A book. A book with bent corners and crinkled pages from getting wet one too many times. A book that has creases in the spine and the cover from where its been bent over and over again.
That kind of book is special. The kind of book that has been loved and been passed along with intention, not just happenstance, a knowledge that the one being gifted it will love it just as much.
Those kinds of books mean something.
C’mere, kid. I want to tell you a secret.
Whoa, whoa, not like that! This isn’t one of those “strange man tells you something that you’re not supposed to share with your parents” situations. I want you to share this with your parents. I want you to share this with the whole world. You wanna be my prophet, you go right ahead. It’s not like most folks are gonna listen, but every so often, one of you people decides to try, and I’m always grateful, even if I don’t think there’s any point to it.
Okay. You with me? You listening? You cleaned your ears out recently? Because if you’re gonna be my prophet, I don’t want you to go around telling people I said something I didn’t. That’s happened to so many of my friends. They lay out one message, and folks pick it up and turn it into something terrible, into some sort of cudgel to beat people with. And that’s not what I’m about.
Okay. You’re good? Then here you go. This is the secret, this is the essential thing I wish you over-important primates would hammer through your heads, this is what matters:
People are essentially good, and essentially the same, everywhere you go. Optimism isn’t shallow, and being a happy person doesn’t make you a fool. You’re allowed to irrigate and plant flowers in your heart. That won’t make you weak. It won’t make you irresponsible, or petty. Be joyous. Find your light and nurture it, and once it’s strong and healthy enough to light up your room, open the windows and share it with the people around you.
There’s a lot of shadow in a lot of folks. A little light can help to beat it back, and can bring us a better world. All of us, not just the divine, and not just the damned.
Do your part, prophet or no. Nurture and protect your joy.
Have you ever drawn turtles?
I know Om is technically (in the form of) a tortoise but close enough
Who are you? said Om. The small god stirred. There was a city once, said the small god. Not just a city. An empire of cities. I, I, I remember there were canals, and gardens. There was a lake. They had floating gardens on the lake, I recall. I, I. And there were temples. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory. Om felt sick. This wasn’t just a small god. This was a small god who hadn’t always been small… Who were you? And there were temples. I, I, me. Such temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid temples that reached to the sky. The glory of. Thousands were sacrificed. Me. To the greater glory. And there were temples. Me, me, me. Greater glory. Such glory temples as you may dream of. Great pyramid dream temples that reached to the sky. Me, me. Sacrificed. Dream. Thousands were sacrificed. To me the greater sky glory. You were their God? Om managed. Thousands were sacrificed. To the greater glory. Can you hear me? Thousands sacrificed greater glory. Me, me, me. What was your name? shouted Om. Name? A hot wind blew over the desert, shifting a few grains of sand. The echo of a lost god blew away, tumbling over and over, until it vanished among the rocks. Who were you? There was no answer.
- Small Gods
Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
Read this book. Read all the Discworld books. Don’t let the number of them put you off. You don’t have to read them in order. Just pick any one book and read it.
[image description: A fancy bower bird with a large yellow eye and a jaunty red beret perches on a colorful pile of ribbons, paper, jars, and bags on a table in a closet packed full of fabrics and other crafty objects. Test reads: “artie bower the small god of crafting hoards 229”]
• • • • •
“Oh, yeah, we’ve got the good stuff. Cold water-pressed paper from France, hand-spun alpaca wool from a tiny organic farm in upstate New York, glitter mined by the hands of the oreads living deep beneath Mount Olympus, anything your little crafter’s heart desires! We can get you kitted out right and proper, and all we ask is that you pay at the front till and leave a little something for Artie in his shrine by the door. He likes buttons and scraps of cloth or paper. Pretty things. Useful things, but not too useful, if you get my drift—he doesn’t like feeling the pressure to actually USE the things he has.
“I can tell just by looking at you that you’re one of his. You may craft on occasion, but mostly, you have. You glory in the having. Maybe sometimes you dream about having even more, about being able to make everyone you know jealous without lifting a finger or spending a penny. And that’s okay! You know what they say: he who dies with the most yarn is still dead, but wow did he have a lot of yarn.
“What, is that not what they say? Huh, I must have gotten that wrong…
“There’s nothing wrong with Artie’s service, no shame in a little stash or in shopping the good sales, building up your stockpile against the lean times. But when your crafting closet goes from pantry to preserve, it may be time to step back and serve another of the craft-oriented gods for a little while. All the yarn in the world isn’t as valuable as a single set of socks, hand-knitted with love. Things want to be used. Life wants to be enjoyed.
“So let yourself use them. Enjoy what you have while you’re still here to enjoy it. Artie will understand. Artie will even celebrate with you, because every piece used is a piece to be replaced, and there’s nothing Artie loves more than a good haul of fresh and new.
“Just remember to make something, if you can.”
• • • • •
Join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many small deities who manage our modern world:
Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries
Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/
Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com
I. This is Not a Game
II. Here and Now, You Are Alive
-Small Gods by Terry Pratchett
Words of wisdom from the Great God Om on this Glorious 25th of May
This is very well done, and I love the Small God series. However, I read the title, and my first thought was, “Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of Elder Bunnies!” And now I can’t stop thinking that.
What is he an elder of?
No one knows, exactly.
Not an elder of rabbits, since foxes can also be fluffy, as can cats, and so very many of the other dangers that stalk the night looking for a belly full of bunny; the prince with a thousand enemies can run and run forever, but in time, his legs will always be exhausted, and he will always be caught. So no, he is not an elder of bunnies.
Not an elder of plush toys, which slip from his realm as they lose their youthful vigor and dewy softness, slipping into the realm of the Skin Horse, small god of Involuntary Reality. He doesn’t save them, doesn’t protect them, doesn’t particularly mourn them once they are gone. So no, he is not an elder of stuffed things.
Perhaps he is an elder of an aesthetic, of the ones who realize early on that a suitable amount of fluffiness can conceal an infinite number of knives, the ones who dress the hatred in their hearts in lace and bows and pretty pinkness in order to seem more harmless than they are. He is an elder of appearances, and a small god of that which seems defenseless but is all the more dangerous because of that illusion’s grasp.
He is not a small god of goodness or of evil, but of the misunderstood and picked upon that can nonetheless defend itself no matter the danger. Even rabbits, the icon of softness and vulnerability, have claws that catch and jaws that bite, and the foxes of the world forget this at their peril.
.……………………………
Artist Lee Moyer (The Doom That Came to Atlantic City, Starstruck) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.
Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:
Tumblr: https://smallgodseries.tumblr.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/smallgodseries
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/smallgodseries/
Homepage: http://www.smallgodseries.com/