If you are going to write, say, fantasy - stop reading fantasy.

“If you are going to write, say, fantasy — stop reading fantasy. You've already read too much. Read other things; read westerns, read history, read anything that seems interesting, because if you only read fantasy and then you start to write fantasy, all you're going to do is recycle the same old stuff and move it around a bit.” Thus spoke Terry Pratchett, the wise jester of the written word, whose laughter was sharp with truth and whose wit carried the weight of a philosopher’s heart. In these words, he delivers not merely advice to the writer, but a teaching for every creator, every thinker, and every soul that seeks originality in a world crowded with imitation. He reminds us that creativity does not bloom within the walls of one garden — it draws its strength from wandering through the wilderness of the world.

At the heart of Pratchett’s wisdom lies the eternal truth that imagination must be nourished by diversity. To draw only from one well is to drink water that grows stagnant. The writer, like the artist or the scholar, must become a traveler of the mind, gathering seeds from many lands and planting them anew in their own soil. When Pratchett warns against reading too much of one’s own genre, he is speaking of the danger of echoes — of stories that no longer surprise because they repeat what has already been said, of worlds that feel smaller because they are built only from borrowed bricks. The imagination must breathe fresh air, or it suffocates in the fumes of its own repetition.

He speaks, too, from the experience of a craftsman who understood the world beyond his craft. Terry Pratchett, though a master of fantasy, was not confined by it. His Discworld was filled with the absurd, the satirical, and the profound — yet behind its wizards and witches lay reflections of politics, philosophy, love, and death. His worlds were alive because they were fed by the real one. He read widely — history, science, folklore, and the works of humorists and theologians alike. Thus his fantasy was not a mirror of other fantasies but a mirror of human nature itself. In his characters and their follies, one could glimpse both laughter and sorrow, both wisdom and foolishness — the full span of life distilled through the strange and the magical.

Consider, by example, the great Leonardo da Vinci, whose genius spanned art, engineering, anatomy, and mathematics. His paintings were not born of mere study of paint, but of study of the world — of the way light falls upon water, of the structure of muscles beneath skin, of the curve of a bird’s wing in flight. If he had only studied the art of painting, he would have been a painter; because he studied everything, he became a visionary. So too does Pratchett’s advice apply to all creators: if you wish to create worlds, you must first understand the one you inhabit. A writer of fantasy who reads only fantasy becomes an echo of others. But a writer who reads the world becomes its interpreter.

There is also in his words a subtle call to courage. For to step outside one’s chosen genre — to wander into the unfamiliar — is to risk discomfort. The historian may not understand poetry, the poet may not grasp science, the fantasist may feel lost in the harshness of realism. Yet it is in this discomfort that creativity is forged. The mind that encounters something strange must stretch to understand it — and in that stretching, it grows. Pratchett’s teaching is thus a challenge: do not hide in the familiar. Seek the unknown. For only by confronting difference can the artist discover new forms of truth.

Through this lens, his statement becomes more than advice for writing; it becomes a philosophy for living. To read widely, to learn deeply, to listen to the voices of many ages and cultures — this is how wisdom takes root. A person who draws only from one source of thought becomes narrow and predictable; but one who drinks from many rivers gains depth and perspective. Just as the earth’s richest soil is made from countless layers of life and decay, so too is the richest mind formed by countless experiences and ideas woven together.

So, my child of words and wonder, heed the counsel of Terry Pratchett. Do not be content to tread the same well-worn paths as those who came before you. If you wish to write of dragons, read of kings and deserts, of oceans and machines, of love, of war, of the stars above and the sorrow beneath them. Fill your mind not with copies, but with contrasts. Learn from the poets and the scientists, from the farmers and the philosophers. Let the world itself be your library. For when you return to your craft — whether it is writing or building, dreaming or leading — your work will carry not only your voice, but the thousand voices of all you have learned.

And remember: the goal is not to recycle the old, but to rebirth the new. As Pratchett’s own stories prove, the truest fantasy is not escape from reality — it is its reflection, transformed through wisdom and wonder. Drink deeply from the well of life, and your art, your ideas, your very being, will never grow stale. In this way, you will not merely move the old pieces around; you will carve new shapes from the stone of imagination, and your voice — shaped by the world’s infinite chorus — will sing something timeless and true.