I don't know if my grandfather ever wrote a sentence in his ninety years on earth. So for me, there's nothing of him to read. I'm a very different story.
Thousands of blog posts, e-mails and letters. Letters! Remember those? Hundreds of poems, a few short stories, what I like to call "half a novel." Notebooks by the double dozens. I have one grandchild already, and the chances are good that there'll be more. So I have the chance of a genetic future. The question is: will they ever read anything that I've written?
Even my two children show little inclination to read anything of mine, and even less inclination to preserve anything. So I guess that it's all going straight onto the junk heap. Will my descendents know anything about me at all? It would be very comforting to think that they might, but the odds are slim to none.
If anything at all survives, it will probably be the now calcifying, totally untrue opinion that I went coo-coo-for-Cocco-Puffs and abandoned my family to become some kind of Surabaya Johnnie in South East Asia. My own version of these events is very different, but I have no desire to make trouble for anybody. Taking the blame for things is what I do best.
So I'm left with no champions, and I've never had the least ability to self-promote. Of Inquisitors, there are a few, but the silver lining is that their opinions will pass from the earth almost as quickly as I will.
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