I don’t have to live forever, and neither does my work. I don’t necessarily want most of my work to outlive me. Someone might save it, anyway.
I think, when I started writing with the intent to be published, some part of it was because I wanted to be known, remembered, maybe immortalized. When I first started writing as a kid, I don’t think I put much thought into whether my stories would survive the test of time. I did want to be famous, though. I wanted to be known by strangers. I wanted to change someone’s life. Maybe subconsciously I wanted to be remembered, but I wasn’t really thinking about what would happen after my death. I wanted to feel it all while I was still alive.
At some point, though, I started writing for the future. It stopped mattering whether I become well-known in this life. I began to write for future archivists, scholars, students, and writers (sometimes addressing them directly). I write so that my words can speak for me when I’m gone.
That vague maybe-future wasn’t my only reason for writing, though. I write for the people around me. I write for my friends and family who want to read my writing. I write for my fellow writers in the creative writing MFA. I write for my classmates, professors, and mentors. I write for the living writers whose work I adore. I write so that people might respond to my work, and I might get to read those responses.
Mostly, though, I have to write for me. I have to write to get these ideas out of my head and onto the page, because I’m the only one who can. That’s why I write hypertext and other e-lit. Hypertext is how my brain works. I use Twine/HTML because it allows me to make the whole book, not just the text inside it. Digital Humanities last semester gave me confidence that my hypertext could be considered literature. Now, BOOKS!! has given me the confidence that I am writing books when I write hypertext. Not just writing books, I’m following in a long line of bookmakers who use whatever technology is available to them in order to show their ideas to the world. I know much more about that history after taking this class.
In this class, we saw hundreds of books and other book-ish objects in the archives. We saw a whole collection of zines, which were made to be read immediately, by people in the zinester’s immediate vicinity, not necessarily to be saved for the future. My midterm project was on Typo Bilder Buch, a book with no intended purpose, printed on paper towels, a work of ephemerality, saved by the archive. One work from the additional class readings, Agrippa (A Book of the Dead), used computer code to convert an electronic poem into genetic code as it’s read. Over time, it would lose all meaning. However, archivists have preserved the work and its meaning for future readers. This is the power of archivists. Archivists can and will and do save these works, and other works like them.
We can all be archivists. We can all, in the spirit of Benjamin, cultivate a collection of these memory-storing objects we call books. My archive includes my favorite books from childhood, my favorite textbooks from undergrad, my favorite novels and collections of poetry and short stories and essays. It includes programs from readings that I’ve attended and where I have read my own work. It includes about a dozen notebooks which I’ve filled with story ideas, poetry, journals, drawings, and absolute nonsense. I saved it all for myself, not because I expect that someone else will want it someday. However, someone might try to save it. Same with hypertext. Maybe it will become obsolete, but someone might try to emulate or recreate it.
This is what this class has taught me. Once the book is published, neither the author nor the publisher gets to decide what happens to it. It may be loved, criticized, remembered, forgotten, uncovered, taken out of context, stolen, pirated, plagiarized, or archived. What I want saved will likely be lost, and what I want burned after my death will likely be the things people most want to save. A terrifying idea to some, but to me, it’s half the fun.