GNU Terry Pratchett

Many years ago, my family and I went to the Hay Literary Festival. My mum and sister were off to see a talk with Judi Dench, if I recall correctly. My dad and I were going to see Terry Pratchett. Dodger was about to come out, and I, a bright-eyed youth of about 15, came clutching my copy of The Colour of Magic in the hopes of snagging a signature after the talk. Dad and I dropped off the girls and went to park the car. We got out, we looked around, and set off in the general direction of the rest of the festival.

We’d barely gone ten yards before we bumped into Terry and Rob in the car park.

They were also on their way in, and, given that they actually had a panel to present, were clearly in far more of a hurry than we were – but they stopped, and said hello, and we shook hands, and I mumbled something inarticulate about how much of a fan I was, and that I was trying to become a writer, and Sir Terry smiled kindly and signed The Colour of Magic, and Rob Wilkins said that we should come and see them after the panel if we had time, and then we got out of their way because they had somewhere far more important to be.

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The talk was fantastic – and I was already riding a high when we went in, let alone after hearing Terry and Rob talk for an hour. But I didn’t get a chance to talk to them afterwards, because everyone and their mothers had had the same idea, and the stage was swarmed. Sir Terry was whisked away by the redoubtable Rob before the baying horde of fans could get their teeth into him – but I caught Rob’s eye as they did, and he smiled and said that I should email them when I had the chance.

When I got home, I realised that the main flaw in this plan was the fact that for some reason I, a teenager with delusions of creative grandeur, didn’t have Terry Pratchett’s email address. So I emailed their publishers. I explained that I’d been at Hay, that I’d wanted to talk to them afterwards, that Rob had told me to email. I did not, at any point, expect to actually get anywhere. But whoever was on the other end of that email address – and if I ever meet you, know that you’re owed so many drinks – took pity on me, and gave me the right email address. So I emailed Terry and Rob directly.

And they replied. Well, Rob replied on Sir Terry’s behalf, but he relayed some advice from the man himself: if you want to get anywhere, write every day. Don’t stop. Just write every day, and sooner or later you will get somewhere.

I didn’t do that straight away. I was, after all, a sixteen-year-old idiot. But a couple of years later, just after Monty Oum died, and I was feeling like I had the space in my head to get creative again, I remembered that advice. And then a month or so later when Sir Terry died, I decided I’d better actually take it to heart.

I’ve written every day since. Not all of it’s good. But it’s something. And after five years, it’s a lot of something.

It was good advice. I’ll never forget it. And I’ll never forget the way he took the time to say hello even when he didn’t really have it.

GNU, Sir Terry.