The Purge

 One of my writer fantasies was the world honoring my life and publishing accomplishments with the Mario Acevedo museum, a must-visit shrine for every wannabe scribe looking for encouragement and inspiration. Here are Mario's desk, laptop, printer. Here are his journals. His coffee cups where he kept his pens and paperclips. His pocket knife. His stacks of reference materials. My wish would be of people culling through my archives, searching for unfinished stories and manuscript drafts that would point to even bigger story ideas and insights into me as a writer sage.

Kevin J. Anderson, who took on the Dune series, told of digging through boxes and discarded files tucked away in Frank Herbert's home to discover, YES! notes and sketches about characters and narratives that helped steer the Dune legacy. This is what I wanted from posterity. Not so much, really.

Harboring my dream was the big reason why I hung onto my research files, background material for novels that ultimately went nowhere. Part of the process in your journey as a writer. At the time, I fancied myself stepping into the shoes of Jack Higgins or Alistair MacLean, hoping that my World War Two pot boilers--Torpedoes Los! (A Nazi U-boat at Pearl Harbor comes close to changing the fate of the war) Midnight in Morocco (An American mercenary spoils Nazi plans in North Africa) The Last Warlord (The same mercenary causes more mischief in China)--would get me rich and famous. But God had other plans.

These papers come from my research pre-Internet when you had to write and mail letters requesting info. The US Navy, National Geographic, Boeing, and the British archives at Flypast were more than generous. I got photos, maps, schematics, reprints, unit histories, all for free. 

As I'm getting older, with the days forward considerably shorter than the days behind me, it's time to start downsizing and decluttering. Purge. Besides these documents, I'm also pitching old manuscripts marked up by my critique group. Farewell, fond memories.