Today is the birthday of the late great author, Terry Pratchett. If you’re not familiar with his writing, his work is best described as comedic fantasy, but it’s so much more than that. He had a way of saying things that would simultaneously make you laugh and make you say “Huh, I never thought of it that way before.”
My own journey with Pratchett’s books began decades ago, when I was a member of the sci-fi and fantasy book club–one of those “book of the month club” things. I had never heard of Pratchett, but a few of his books were offered through the club, and they sounded interesting, so I picked one up. I honestly can’t remember what my first Discworld book was, but I think it was Witches Abroad. Either way, I really enjoyed the ones that I got and went looking for more. That’s when I found out that, at that time, most of his book weren’t available in the US.
Fast forward a while, and I had been able to find a few more books at a sci-fi/fantasy bookshop in Berkeley, California, but most of his writing was still out of my reach. Thankfully, someone at Harpercollins clued in to his popularity in the UK and brought his books over here, starting with his first Discworld novel, The Color of Magic. From that point on, I was hooked.
Fast forward again, and I had the opportunity to meet him in person in San Francisco. A small independent bookstore was hosting the signing, and I’ll never forget the way it started. Pratchett stepped to the front of the room and said “Well, I don’t like doing readings, because I think they’re a bit pretentious, so let’s just have a little chat, shall we?” I swear, I could feel the panic from the bookstore employees! But he kept us enthralled with stories of his writing career and how he came to start the Discworld series. When I took questions, I asked him about his character Death–yes, the Grim Reaper, who in his books, speaks in all capital letters. I asked him what that sounds like. His answer?… “Christopher Lee.”
Pratchett was later diagnosed with an aggressive form of Alzheimer’s, but he continued writing for as long as he could. And in 2015, his Twitter account posted, “AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER. Terry took Death’s arm and followed him through the doors and on to the black desert under the endless night. The End.” Death had come for Pratchett at last.
Pratchett was fierce. His disease, which he called his “embuggerance”, was the enemy that he never ceased to fight, but at the same time, accepted as inevitable. Today would have been his 76th birthday. And on this day, I’d like to share with you his words on hope:
