It is not an overstatement to say that Michael Crichton had more influence on my childhood imagination than any other writer. In fact, if one were to dig through my old elementary and middle school assignments, every book report was for a Crichton novel. I even recall writing an essay on why I wanted to be Michael Crichton.
Yes, later in life I expanded my reading horizons, learning that Crichton was not, as I’d always believed, the greatest writer on the planet. However that does nothing to change the fact I would buy Michael Crichton books for my Dad on his birthday with the ulterior motive that I would get to read them when he was done. That there was a summer I literally woke up every morning and watched a VHS tape of JURASSIC PARK. He was my gateway to a world of science fiction, off-brand horrors and paperback diving.
I owe him a debt.
This fucking blows.