Life & death. Or just Death.

Or rather, the friendly staff of Switzerland’s Dignitas clinic is going to politely assist him to death.

This is a deeply personal decision on the part of Sir Pratchett and I really have no business commenting on it. But I’m going to, anyway. Probably because I’m a tactless American.

Part of me (the smaller part) wants to applaud him for taking the reins on his life to determine exactly when and where he’ll go quietly into that assisted good night. But the larger part of my personality (the one that likes to whisper horrible things directly into my frontal lobe at night, just after I fall asleep and just before I wake up screaming) wants to slap him around a little until he promises not to do it.

But that part of me is the selfish part. It’s the one that wants him to stay around forever (or at least for as long as I’m around), writing more brilliant novels and shoving more unforgettable quotes into my braincase. I want him alive so that his work keeps going – but the problem is, simply living won’t accomplish that.

You see, Sir Pratchett was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s a few years ago, and his days of cogent thought are numbered. He wants to go out before his mind turns on him, which is a terrible prospect for anyone. But it’s even worse for a writer.

Writers are funny little creatures. We spend the majority of our time on this planet bringing our lives to the brink of ruin, just so we’ll have something interesting to write about later on. And when we’re not writing, our demented little brains are cooking up all sorts of fiendish ways to punish us until we finally sit down and bang on the keyboard again. We live almost entirely inside our own minds, which is usually a great – if occasionally demented – place to be. Unless it decides to betray us, that is.

And this is the situation in which Pratchett finds himself. Why spend useless years as a burden to his loved ones while he curses his fate on lucid days and is unsure what pudding is all about on the others? Why put himself and those he loves through that prolonged pain and suffering?

There’s no good reason, really. No rational one, at any rate.

But death isn’t rational. And no matter what the Dignitas clinic calls itself, it’s certainly not dignified. Death is always horrible. It’s always hard. It’s always ugly and it’s always heart-breaking, no matter how your clock gets punched.

I certainly respect Sir Pratchett’s right to decide when he dies, because if we’re ever going to live in a free society, then the one thing we should have an intractable freedom over is our own damn bodies. If you want to pump yours full of drugs and go through life as an only slightly less interesting version of blueberry jam on burnt toast, then that should be your decision. And, if you want to decide when you’ve had enough of the wonderful miseries of life, then it’s nobody’s business but your own.

And mine, apparently.

I just don’t like the idea that there can ever be anything dignified about death. It’s a painful, brutal part of life that haunts us every waking moment after our first goldfish dies and we learn all about the heavenly fishy peace to be found in the holy pipework of municipal plumbing.

Maybe choosing your time to die lets your family get closure, but I don’t buy it. Mostly because I find the very idea of closure to be complete bullshit.

You never get over losing someone you love, no matter how they die. There’s never enough time to be with them, never enough moments to share. And when they’re gone, it won’t matter that you got to say goodbye. They’re still gone. Forever.

Whenever Death comes, at least he’s always smiling.

Nothing you can do will ever make that feel any better. You can’t ever have “closure” unless you can stop loving the person you lost. And I don’t know about any of you, but the day I stop loving the people I’ve lost is the day I’ll check myself into the Dignitas clinic. Because life won’t mean a damn thing anymore.

I don’t know how to feel about Terry choosing when he dies. I honestly don’t. It’s not like I’ve ever met the man or even had a pleasant thirty-second conversation over a book signing. I just know how I feel about death, and I know that it is never, ever dignified.

It can’t be. It hurts too damn much.

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
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This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
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What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.