Just when I thought being a published author couldn’t get any stranger––a stranger calls. This time it’s a curator from a university, asking if I’d be willing to donate my notes, early drafts and other writings to their library.

My first response was, “Gosh, I’m flattered, but really, I’m a nobody.” My second response, “And I’m not dead yet.”

She assured me that having the newly-minted title, New York Times Bestselling Author is good for something (other than impressing total strangers at parties) and that you don’t actually have to be pushing up daisies to bequeath your writings to someone, or someplace. As it turns out, archivists prefer the living to the dead, go figure. That way they can speak with said author, instead of said author’s 4th wife, or bitter grand-step-nephew twice removed.

I’m equal parts flattered and freaked out. Here’s a rundown as to why:

Rough Drafts. They’re asking for early drafts, which would be made available to the public––ideally lit students that might dissect them a bit. But my early drafts are covered in ink, my wife’s ink, complete with little inside jokes and billets-doux in the margins. That’s akin to sharing love-notes passed in junior high. My rough drafts might need a disclaimer to keep the reader from overdosing on our PDAs.

Notes. I have stacks of notes, and legal pads filled with rough timelines of historical events, locations, and sketched maps. Plus doodles and jotted appointments. The only problem is that my handwriting is so poor it looks like I did my note taking in the dark in a zero-G environment with my left hand while on speed. I’ve been told that someone would transcribe them. God bless ‘em.

Journals. Believe it or not, before I started blogging I kept a regular journal––which goes back to the early 90s. Not that anyone would care, except maybe my children, but these are the things archivists like to make available––to the world. Would you turn over your journals? I asked about this and she mentioned an uber-famous author who has donated his with the stipulation that they only be published after he and his wife have both passed away. Ironically, I know this author and remember him once saying, “Journals only exist to hurt people after you die.” He was joking. I think. I’m younger than him, so maybe one day I’ll find out what that bastard really thinks of me.

It’s odd to think of your work being stored somewhere, in various stages of undress. I’m fighting the urge to redact my own notes, blacking out salacious little bits, but that’s missing the point, isn’t it? I’m still not sure if I’ll turn everything over. I have my reasons. Maybe I’ll write them down and you can read about 'em someday.