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For my Daughters 21st.

I had to be the one to tell her. I couldn’t let the internet tell her… the internet wouldn’t understand her tears, like mine could… My bebe and I grew up on the words of Terry Pratchett. We would listen to him on cassette whilst we painted the pathways on fairylands. For most of her life she would fall asleep listening to one of his story’s. She still does.

My daughter Jasmine’s 21st was a Discworld themed party and even her Grandmother dressed up as Granny Aching. I was one of the witches of course, probably more Nanny Ogg than Weatherwax. The cake was great fun… the elephants gingerbread, the discworld the most giant anzac biscuit of all time.

I am deeply grateful for the gift that Sir Terry Pratchett gave my daughter and I. The gift of shared realities in a world where most teenagers are almost driven from their parents side. The blessings of characters of incredible integrity, looking at you Vimes,  when our world rarely reflects that in places of authority. A simple normalness of powerful women, living powerful lives. The gifts this brings when raising a daughter, he knew, he was raising one too.

For me personally, I read Good Omens as my world collapsed. It was the story that allowed all to dissolve, and for me to understand that I was here, now, with this earth. I could be a part of the “ascension” and just take of me or I could be one of the many midwives for this new world that is arriving, the one that Terry seemed to reach for. The one that cares, lives with, uses all the solution we already possess, offering us the will to wield it.

Something to believe in. The power of story.

Something to believe in. The power of story.

When Jasmine said that she was getting a discworld tattoo for her 21st, I knew I wanted one too. To own it, the effect that Sir Terry had upon us, what the stories did and still do for us. We wear them in separate places, the effect, the tattoo. As a writer, I know the anger that Neil Gaimon describes of Terry Pratchett, I understand that state… Thus I am deeply indebted to these words…

“What would Terry do with this anger?” Then I pick up my pen, and I start to write…

I truly hope my daughter does too.

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