A blog about living a Simple, Focused, and Independent life.

The Day Terry Died

My favourite author died today and I bawled like a little boy. I have loved his books since I loved reading. If you know me, even just a little bit, you will know what that means. I would read in the shower if I could. I have almost twenty of his books on my shelves.

In fact, he has his own shelf.

I scooped up another of his books the other day, a Dickensian adventure set in London[1]. I took that to be a Good Omen[2]. I took it, in a sort of silly serendipitous way, to be his blessing.

I think it hurt more than when my grandmother died. It’s a bizarre truth. I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. But she also had Alzheimer’s. She had a reason she couldn’t put the pieces together on a daily basis. She was too old. I was too young. We were like strangers passing in a hallway.

But somehow I felt like I knew Terry. I spent so much time with him. Read and re-read so many of his stories. He is the reason[3], I wanted to become a writer, when I was young and in awe and didn’t know any better. He’s the reason I don’t write humour.

I first started reading Terry Pratchett because they were funny. At the time, I didn’t know what satire was. I didn’t realise that there could be so many layers to a story. That he would hide one meaning within another, saying something serious with a smirk. I grew up reading those books.

Today he died.

*

[1] It’s called Dodger.
[2] We know what I just did there.
[3] I must be honest, Pratchett and Herbert are the reasons. Dune being the only book I remember reading before Terry Pratchett became my obsession.

One Response to The Day Terry Died

  1. So beautifully written… I know how much Terry meant to you and how in many ways, he helped shaped your identity. What a hero, what a legacy he has left behind.
    Now pick up your pen and write 🙂

"Talk to me, Goose."