How do you put in words what someone means to you, someone who has been a part of your life since you were 12, but you've only met once and only exchanged a few words with?

There are tears in my eyes. The world is a different place today. It's been a while coming, longer than any of us could have hoped, but Terry Pratchett died today. Everyone knew it was coming...well, everyone knows death is coming eventually for us all. But since his diagnosis of early onset Alzheimers it was tangible. It was an inevitability that made me wonder "is this his last book?" every time a new one was released.

I couldn't tell you the first time I picked up one of his books. I can tell you which one though. It was Mort, and I was hooked. I went through every single thing I could find at Salisbury library, until there weren't any others. He'd only written fifteen Discworld novels at this point, the slacker. And then I found out he was releasing a new book, the first since I'd started reading him. And he was coming to Salisbury for a book signing.

I walked down to the bookshop on Fisherton St, just past the bridge, with a £20 note clutched in my hand. I don't remember the name of the bookstore, but it's gone now, a vodka bar inhabiting the space. But back then, it was small rooms linked together with smaller staircases, and books and the smell of books everywhere. As I neared the shop, I see someone who looks familiar coming from the opposite direction. We got to the shop at the same time, and he held the door open. I thanked him, and went in, thinking 'nah, that couldn't be him.' I spent several minutes trying to decide which books to buy with my riches. Reaper Man of course, it was my favorite at the time. But 3 more paperbacks, or the new release in hardback?

I went with the hardback. Soul Music. Stilld doubting my choices, I went to where Terry Pratchett was sitting.

And it was the same person who held the door for me.

Immediately, I was embarrassed. Who was I that he held a door open for me? I stammered my name, he signed them both, stamped them, and then I hurried back to my grandfather's just down the street.

I've read and reread both of them so much they're like old friends. The dust jacket is long gone from Soul Music, and the pages of Reaper Man are as soft as feathers from repeated thumbing.

Those books, and indeed all his his satire, was a gateway drug. An addiction I couldn't, didn't want to shake. He got me hooked on Fantasy. The Classics. Myth. Critical Thinking. The Power of Words and their importance. And Writing.

The second thing I wrote was a conversation between Death and an unnamed person. His fault. But when I forgot about it for years, rediscovered it, and after cringing through the terribly clumsy thing, it made me think about going further. Anthropomorphically personifying maybe a bunch of other things. My first real short story, The Undiscovered Country, was an actual attempt. And it led to others, most of which haven't seen the light of day, and probably never will, but they're getting me to where I want to be so that's okay. One of them became a short story became a trilogy (which is actually almost two thirds written, but crap and needs work). One is a short screenplay, and I like to think he'd appreciate it.

But he's gone, and I lament my laziness, my assumption that I've got all the time in the world to get my arse in gear. There's no way to let him know I appreciate everything he wrote and shared. There's no way to say "Here, Sir. Terry, I wrote this and, well, once you held a door open for me and it's crap, but, well, here."

It's his writing. I'd have been a fan regardless of him holding the door open for me in 1994 or not. But there is that one moment, forever etched into my mind, and gods I'm going to miss him.