Or how I managed to startle one of the most famous authors in the world

I remember once hearing the saying 'Americans all want to be famous, Canadians are content to just have a brush with fame and head home.' Well, I've head my brush, so I guess it's time to go home.

A quick bit of background: I spend no small part of my impressionable teenage years working at a book store. The pay was insulting, but it made for a good part-time job and – despite the occasional depressing customer – I did quite enjoy the experience, not to mention the opportunity to familiarize myself with a massive range of books.

The perks were few and far between while I was there, but I was known as the “Sci-fi, fantasy, and computer” guy, or 'geek'. It should then come as no surprise than when one of the biggest names in modern fantasy was booking a tour that included a stop in our little northern city they made sure to let me know.

If the name Terry Pratchett rings a bell, congratulations. Up until J. K. Rowling came on the scene he was the highest grossing author to ever come out of England. Famous for his comedic fantasy series Discworld the man was already a living legend and geek icon. He was able to simultaneously poke fun at the – at times – rather farcical standards of the fantasy genere while still managing to craft thoughtful, engrossing stories. I currently own over twenty of his books, and that's only a small portion of his impressively sized library.

You notice what I said there? Currently own. At the time of his tour I had only two books of his. A children's book I'd won in a raffle titled The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents, and a thin paperback that I'd picked up out of desperation some time ago in an airport bookshop, Only You Can Save Mankind.

I had all of two days warning that I was going to meet with one of the biggest authors on the planet and I, frankly, had hardly any idea who he was. I was only going because my manager had signed me up without asking first, just assuming I was dying to meet him.

So with forty-eight hours to go I was left franticly searching through my seemingly endless personal library of books, trying to find the two that I knew I had in there somewhere. I was only nineteen at the time and didn't have the spare cash to buy replacements for him to sign. Heck, I hardly had enough money to afford bus fare to get across town to the store where he'd be doing the meet-and-greet.

Come the day of the tour and I was scheduled to work that morning. I'll admit I was nervous. I was still pretty young back then (as opposed to the kinda young I am now...) and, frankly, didn't know what to expect. Coming off shift I was sprinting to the bus stop to try and make my way to the other store.

And I missed my bus.

Yeah, go me. Thankfully there is always a backup plan when you're a teenager – it's called parents.

My folks weren’t exactly thrilled to have to pick me up and drive me across town, but they did it anyway. I think it was mostly so they wouldn’t have to hear me complain about missing a 'once in a lifetime opportunity' for the rest of the summer. I will admit though that it was easier to get changed out of my work cloths in the back of my parent's truck than it would have been on the bus. City transit doesn't tend to look favourably upon people stripping down in public...

So there I was, standing in front of the book store that Mr. Pratchett was scheduled to meet at. You know that scene in the movies where the main character stands in front of a skyscraper and looks up, and up, and up? Yeah. This was a big book store. Only one floor, but it was larger than some malls I've seen. Stepping through the front doors, I'd never set foot in the place before and was instantly lost.

Thankfully – with the aid of high-speed parental transit – I'd arrived with time to spare. Flagging down a book seller, they were able to direct me to the conference centre in the back of the store where a meeting room had been set aside. Yep, the store was big enough to have a conference centre in it.

I wasn't sure what to expect when I finally arrived, but then again neither did anyone else. There were a dozen of us there, all fantasy geeks, all staff from the different stores in the area. If memory serves one or two of then had travelled hundreds of kilometres from the far north to be there. And every one of them was chatting away about Terry Pratchett, discussing which of his books was their favourite.

I felt like quite the doofus, standing there clutching my two books I'd brought for him to sign while other folks had brought dozens of books, seemingly nearly everything he'd ever written.

I'd like to say that good Sir Terry (okay, he hadn’t yet been knighted back then, but he should have been...) swept in moments later and everything went awesome.

Yeah, no.

The meet-and-greet was scheduled to start at two in the afternoon and run until four. Three o'clock and we were still waiting, and starting to get a bit annoyed.

I'll admit the idea of just ducking out and slinking home crossed my mind no too few times. I wasn't really meant to be there. I didn't know the man, I hardly even liked his work. I was way over in a part of town I didn't know and – frankly – this hadn't even been my idea to start with. The only thing keeping me in the room was the fact I'd have to call the taxi service of Mom and Dad to get home, and it would be hard explaining to them why they'd made the trip all the way out here twice for nothing.

It was three forty-five by the time the guest of honour arrived. A short, long gone grey man with a beard that reminded me instantly of Santa Clause. Good Sir Terry had come. The first words out of his mouth were an apology for his tardiness. Apparently he'd just come from doing a meet-and-greet with another group and it had run late. You could see by the expression on the face of the lady who'd been sent by the book company to chauffeur him around that he didn't know the meaning of on time.

And with that we were off. He started into what I could tell was a long practised prattle about his life, his books, and just, well... him. I was sure he had given the story a hundred times, but I have to admit he was a surprisingly nice guy.

Okay, I'll say I'm a sucker for a guy (or gal) with a British accent, and boy did he have one. He just came across like a perfect grandfather figure. He could go on and on about his life and adventures, not to mention the epics he'd written, smiling at you the whole time, adding in an extra wink where appropriate and letting you know that while his stories were PG, he might not quite be...

And over and above anything, you could tell he was used to being on the book signing circuit. Ye gods but the man could talk and sign at the same time. It sounds like something so minor, but the man chewed his way through mountains of books, signing and adding quotes, never looking down. He never once paused while telling stories. One at a time, each of us would bring our books up for him to sign and he never broke stride while giving us all personalized messages.

Yeah, that was until I stepped up.

You remember how I mentioned that neither of the books I owned were from his most famous series? Everyone else had brought him Discworld books to sign, but not me. You could see him looking through the two books I handed him, just expecting to see Tripping The Light Fantastic, or The Colour of Magic there. He paused for just a moment in the middle of his story and glanced up at me. I just shrugged.

Now, do you remember the two books I had brought with me? The first one, the children's, was fairly recent. He signed it and moved out without thinking. The second, Only You Can Save Mankind was somewhat more eventful.

I never did quite figure out what it was, but Sir Terry took one look at the cover and stopped dead.

He'd signed dozens of books and never skipped a beat, but I was enough to stop him dead in his tracks. I remember quietly asking him “Uhh... you wrote that book... right?” There was a notable pause before he answered, “Of course.”

A moment later he started back up as if nothing had happened, returning to his tale about how he'd come up with Rincewing the Wizard. I was more than relieved to get my books back and scurry off the the far corner of the room.


It may not sound like much, but I still have that thin little paperback on my bookshelf. Within it he'd written:

Only you can save mankind... if not you, who else?
--Terry Pratchett

Thanks to Friday/Dandin for editing this.