A curious and unfortunate condition of my own existence is that I think about the end of that existence–the finality and cessation of life triggered by death–way too often. I don’t know why that is. I don’t know why I am terrified of it, considering it simply means not being anymore. Crap, even that brief passage terrified me and made me run off and find my partner so I could kiss her. Damn. Seriously, it is a tough subject for me. What shocks me about the entire thing is that it has nothing to do with legacy. I don’t think about how people will remember me. I do think about how people who know me feel about me in the now. I do think about what people who read my stuff think about my stuff. I don’t consider any lasting history or appreciation of my body of work. In other words, I don’t truly care about my legacy.
I wonder why this is. Perhaps it is because I write largely for role-playing games and the work I do is not critically acclaimed outside of the circle of people who appreciate that kind of work. I don’t write the lasting literature of the ages. The best I could ever imagine my work being is a kind of blip or moment in sci-fu that inspires someone to take the next step in whatever vein of sci-fi/fantasy I wind up settling into. Of course, as I near 50 yrs on this lonely planet I might have to accept that I have settled into what I do and whatever else I do is a divergence (or vacation) from that.
In short, I don’t write for legacy. I write because I want to write and tell stories and I love the challenge of it. So, I will continue writing in that vein and telling whatever stories that crop up in my mind.