I sincerely hope that after I’m gone someone with more sense than me will look through my notebooks instead of just tossing them in the trash. There are a ton of creative ideas there that I have no time to develop into stories. I know that writers are frequently looking for new angles and ideas that haven’t been presented before. I have them in spades. Of course, unless someone is noticed at least by shortly after their passing, their stuff becomes detritus lost for all time. I was thinking of family heirlooms recently. I come from a poor family, not rich in stuff. Indeed, most of what we still own is made of paper. The rare family heirloom is something imbued with history. One of my grandfather’s things (I have two of his books) that survived was a brief account of his life. (Also paper.)
Members of his family—I’m still uncertain as to who—experimented with photography. This was in the days of holding still while being shot, but there were some very interesting prints that made their way to me. (Paper again.) This was from the time that negatives were preserved on glass. I imagine this led to storage issues over time. And I also know that families have to move from time to time. Things get lost during every move, from my experience. In my grandfather’s very brief autobiography, he notes that these glass plates were kept under the floor of the barn and were forgotten at the time of a move. I very much doubt that they’re still there. Developers greedily come in with their backhoes and knock and dig and dump and pour.
I sometimes wonder what small, local history was lost on those glass plates. Some families are erased from history—most of us are, in fact. Generations on down the road there’s little evidence that we were even here. For writers, a stab is being made at remembrance. I tend to think of writing as being like a radio receiver for thoughts. They may not originate with me. Some of them are quite bizarre—trust me. It makes me sad to think of them left rotting in some landfill. My “Kilroy was here” is inscribed in notebooks. If anybody’s interested, I’ll warn you in advance that my handwriting’s quite small. And the ideas are uncensored. There are so very many of them. I don’t mind sharing, but I would appreciate the opportunity to try selling them myself, first. If only I had the time to write them all out. And I won’t be leaving them under the barn floor.
