Not sure that this personal blah is worth reading - so you have been warned.
I was 12 when I read Colour of Magic and delighted that he'd already written some other books. I caught up to be waiting for Wyrd Sisters when it came out.
I don't think then I ever dared hope that there would be so many books. Most authors that I knew of then seemed to manage a trilogy or two and that was that.
Perhaps at the same time there's an odd connection with the fact that I could never imagine surviving all that long. I thought 20-something would be as far as I would get.
There was an odd synchronicity about his writing and publishing. A new book would often come along just when my life was at some critical point - and it would seem his weird little buried messages fitted in to my universe and helped me out.
I think I've said before "Thief of Time" is the "book that saved my life" because it arrived at a very dark time and something in it helped me move forward.
It's odd to be able to measure out so much of life against a work of fiction. Perhaps the attraction of Coronation Street (or other soaps) which I never got into.
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