Bittersweet

 This is actually rather bittersweet…

Over the weekend, I’ve started the process of boxing up papers in my office: manuscripts, drafts, galleys: the assorted detritus of a writer’s life that have piled up over the last 45 years or so. It’s going to take several boxes, as it’s a lot of material.

I’ve had a couple contacts from universities over the years who have expressed an interest in archiving my papers since they have research collections from writers in my genre. Earlier this year, I’d finally contacted the Steely Library at Northern Kentucky University where I’ve been teaching creative writing since the turn of the century to see if they might be interested, as NKU felt more like ‘home’. After some initial enthusiasm on their part, though, ultimately no one ever got back to me to say ‘yes’. They also didn’t seem to be understanding what I was asking; they kept talking in our emails about digitizing my books so someone could download them—which contractually I can’t allow. That seemed to be their definition of ‘archiving.’

Then, out of the blue, I received an email from Jeremy Brett, the Curator of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Research Collection at Texas A&M University, saying they were interested in handling my papers since they had a growing collection from science fiction and fantasy writers, including George RR Martin and other WILD CARDS writers. That sounded like a much better match for me, so I informed NKU that I was going to send my literary papers to TAMU.

So… if somewhere down the road, some fool would like to do some academic research on my work, the place to contact is Texas A&M University.

Yet as I implied, I’m finding the task of packing up all this stuff somewhat bittersweet. On one hand, it’ll be nice to have uncluttered the office and my files somewhat, but now all those manuscripts I toiled and sweated over, that I read and re-read and re-read again, that Denise and I corrected and marked, they’ll no longer be with me. I won’t ever see them again, in all likehood. Maybe no one will ever see them again except the archivists at TAMU.

I find myself looking at the manuscripts as I’m putting them in the boxes, examining the stains and wrinkles on the paper, the sometimes illegible marginal writing here and there, the colorful flags sticking out from the sides marking pages that needed attention, the cover letters from various assistant editors, and so on. Even though in many cases I haven’t looked at the manuscripts in years or decades, seeing them again pulls up memories of that time, and I’ll no longer have their presence in my office to spark reminiscence. 

I lay them in the boxes like I’m burying old friends—which to some extent, I am. I won’t be there when they’re exhumed at the other end, examined by some dispassionate hands and eyes that know them not at all, to be catalogued, then re-entombed somewhere else and perhaps forgotten from that time forward.

I sniff occasionally, not entirely certain whether it’s from the dust they’ve accumulated or from sadness.

On the plus side, this is less work and fewer decisions that Denise or our kids will have to deal with once I’m gone. Maybe they’ll thank me for that.  Bittersweetly or not.