Just after 12 am this morning I found out that Terry Pratchett, one of my all-time favourite authors, had died. Even now I’m still having a bit of a hard time processing it, especially as I can’t honestly think of no other author who has affected me quite so deeply, and even after knowing how much he has been through with battling Alzheimer’s and that it would be sooner rather than later.
Last night I decided to try and write down just what his writing has meant to me, my history and how much it has affected my own writing and humour and frame of mine over the last twenty years… and to be honest I wrote a load of self centered garbage focusing on myself. Suddenly I wrote something a bit more like that which inspired me, something a bit more poetic and heartfelt, and then I expanded upon it until I couldn’t work on it anymore, and I’d like to share it with you now.
There is a book.
A book that changed my life.
A book that I have read so many times I can literally pick up, randomly flip open to any page and be instantly immersed within the world.
A book that when I first read it I devoured it without pause.
A book that affected me so much that almost immediately after I finished reading it for the first time, I read it again cover to cover all within the span of a single day.
A book that is so dear to me that there is a copy always ready to read at home, even a copy behind the driver’s seat of my car.
A book that after twenty years is still one of my favourite stories of all time and possible will be until I die.
A book whose author I have never met and missed several opportunities to do so, whom I have never spoken to, never wrote to, and regrettably will never be able to, but will forever hold in the highest of regards for his brilliant creation.
A book that inspires me and invigorates my imagination, even in my darkest moments.
A book about a boy called Mort.