What really matters is what you do with what you have – H G Wells

When it comes to the genre of the humble book, I don’t really have a favourite.  I’m a typical reader of books that are written well and tell a good story. Whether it’s romance, action, suspense and so on, if the style and language are right for me, then I’ll read it.  I don’t tend to give into to marketing ploys, I prefer to go to a bookshop, open the book and read a page or two.

Sometimes the most bizarre situations are the most likeable. This is usually where you meet the strange characters that create the weird worlds of the sci-fi genre. So when you think of the kind of mind needed to create that unsettling universe, you can’t discount Herbert George Wells.

 

H G Wells was born in 1866. Around the age of eight, Wells was a victim of a terrible accident that left him with a broken leg.  Bedridden, he started reading books that his father would bring him from the library which fuelled a craving to write.

He attended Thomas Morley’s Commercial Academy until his father broke his hip and was unable to pay the fees, after which Wells took an apprenticeship as a draper. Needless to say, this experience was the muse for his work, The Wheels of Chance and Kipps.

Wells’ failure over the years with work was plentiful, however, his writing prevailed. His work such as The Island of Doctor Moreau and The time Machine are classics and have both been portrayed by Hollywood, but my favourite is The War of the Worlds. The book is based on an invasion by Martians in the Woking area.  It presents as a genuine account of the Martian invasion. Now I have had the chance to see the places where the aliens invaded, I could probably think of better places for Martians to land, but I didn’t write the book.

Martian Tripod in Woking

Whether you prefer the half man-half beast, Morlocks or Martians, you really should read an H G Wells novel.  The plots are exquisite and I promise that the stories are enjoyable, even if you’re not a sci-fi fan.

H G Wells passed away in 1946 and was cremated at Golders Green Crematorium. His ashes were scattered at sea. Of course the books that I’ve mentioned in this post are not his only work, but those that I find the most appealing.  Looking back over his life, there was plenty of stumbling, but also a perseverance to succeed.  Even right to the end, he endeavoured to pick himself up and now at the end of this post I have the opportunity to tell you that Once upon a time in London, we lost a writer whose apparent last words were ‘Go away. I’m all right.’