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. I took that to be a Good Omen. 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, 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.
 It’s called Dodger.
 We know what I just did there.
 I must be honest, Pratchett and Herbert are the reasons. Dune being the only book I remember reading before Terry Pratchett became my obsession.