Terry Pratchett died today at the age of 66.

I owe Sir Terry an incalculable debt of gratitude. He’s one of the authors I thanked in my very first book. He’s the author I most compare my style to—though mine is but a shadow of his, for now at least. He’s one of the people who has most informed my worldview, especially on the power of stories. He’s the author I’ve bought the most, read the most, and reread the most, which is something I rarely have time to do.

But most of all, he’s the one who made me believe I could write. No—he’s the one who made me want to write enough to actually do it, for the dream of telling stories like he did. He’s also the one I secretly dreamed would one day hear of my work, and lend me a kind word. Now that will never happen.

Thank you, Terry. Thank you for everything. Rest in peace.

“It is often said that before you die your life passes before your eyes. It is in fact true. It’s called living.” -Terry Pratchett