I’m not sure I can adequately put into words how important Terry Pratchett’s writing is to me, but I’m going to try nonetheless.
When I was very young, my father would tell us about books he’d read – ones too complicated for seven-year-olds to tackle, but snippets of which could be retold in bedtime stories.
My favourites of these were always the ones about Pratchett’s Death. I was enamoured with the idea of a Grim Reaper who loved kittens, went out for curry, and rode a horse named Binky; but who was all the same practical, sagacious, and very good at his job. So when I was eight years old, my father handed me Mort, the first Discworld novel starring Death.
I don’t think I read anything else for the next three years.
Discworld was one of the greatest influences of my childhood. Sir Pratchett’s writing made me laugh, of course, and I learned then how deep my thirst for satire really ran. It also made me cry, smile, blink hard at genuinely unexpected twists. It taught me to write my own stories, crude though they were then. But above all, those grim, witty, wonderful words shaped the way my mind works. They helped build the fundamental patterns of my thoughts and made me who I am today. And I know the same is true for so many others out there.
So thank you, Sir Terry Pratchett. Thank you for making us who we are, and for everything else along the way.
P.S- Drag the picture onto a dark background