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Staplers and Testaments

For those of you who want to skip past all the “thanks for commenting” and “I promise I’ll get back to you” stuff, you’ll find that today’s post starts after the next paragraph. As for the rest of you:

First and foremost, an enthusiastic thanks needs to go out to all of you who read and commented on my posts over the last week. Suddenly having featured content could not have been more unexpected for me, and it’s a thrill and a pleasure to have to deal with more than a hundred comments when I’m used to three or four. I hope you’ll understand and pardon me when I tell you that time constraints force me to make some generalizations. Primarily, I’d like you to know that I make a point of reading every single comment left on my site, and I’m very grateful for each one. Secondly, you’re more than welcome to subscribe to the blog—I started writing here in anticipation of an audience, so as far as I’m concerned more is better. Thirdly, if you’d like to hear from me, just tell me so. If you leave a question or a message (as opposed to a comment), I’ll do my best to get back to you within a week at most, and I see no problem with accepting friend requests, though I’m paranoid enough to reserve veto power if it becomes necessary. You’ll have to give me a few more days to sort through the comments that have already been left, but I promise I’ll get to them. Again, this is a wonderful problem to have, and I couldn’t be happier that you’ve found my writing worthy of discussion and response.

I now present to you my regularly scheduled post, hoping frantically that it can live up to last Tuesday’s:

I’m not one to find much humor in death, but I will say that I still can’t get over the irony of hearing a will preparation seminar announced by a man who looked like he’d probably be having his own last wishes read any day now. This was part of a church service I attended on Sunday, which meant that I could also get a chuckle out of seeing “free will clinic” printed in the bulletin. Mostly I was intrigued by the concept. Better to do this immediately, he said. If you don’t think you have assets, you have assets. I didn’t really think I had assets, but I wanted to have them, just so I could put them in a will. This compulsion would’ve seemed odd to me if not for my love of office supply stores.

Seriously, it makes sense. Have you ever crossed the threshold of Staples or Office Depot? During my last visit, I walked through the front doors intending to buy two tote bags. I came out the door with two tote bags, a Scotch tape dispenser and twelve rolls of tape to fill it with. Why buy the tape? Because I thought I might have something that needed taping. Furthermore, in the process of getting the tape and the bags I narrowly avoided the temptation of one-touch staplers, a GPS system and an “easy button.” Some men escape to hardware stores to buy screwdrivers and saws while dreaming of the projects they’ll never get around to building. I go into Staples and become thoroughly enchanted with folders, highlighters, staplers, tape and envelopes. It’s not really possession of the object itself, but what it says about what I already have. If I have files, I might have documents worth filing. If I have highlighters, they can make my printed words more important. If I have Scotch tape, I can convince myself that I’ll soon be using it to take the plot ideas I’ve scribbled on scrap paper and stick them onto the pages of my notebooks. The purchase of a safe is much more thrilling when I know I have something worth protecting. And just like that safe, writing a last will and testament would mean that I’d have wishes that were worth communicating, and possessions worth leaving behind.

If I’m completely honest with myself, I can admit that there’s a little bit of a sensationalistic mentality left in me from reading one too many Agatha Christie novels. Everyone who’s ever read a Victorian murder mystery knows that a will is the place to put all your surprising revelations about your life and your beneficiaries, so as to reach out and startle the heck out of them from beyond the grave. There is definitely a part of me that wants to write a letter to be opened in the event of my death, just so I can say all the things I’d never have the nerve to say while I was alive. The problem with that idea is that I inevitably find myself at a loss as to what to confess. Yes, I have secrets, no, I don’t always say what’s on my mind, and yes, I could probably find ways to shake people up a little, but when it comes to telling the truth about a first love or a friendship that meant the world to me or family members I’d hate to live without, there’s really not much left to reveal. Once you say “I love you,” I’ve found it’s sometimes a bad idea to try and restate it in a number of colorful and poetic ways. The impact and importance of three little words can often be lessened when you take the risk of falling into cliché and redundancy. Better to just say what you need to say during this lifetime. If nothing else, at least you get to see a reaction.

So startling revelations are out, but that doesn’t take care of all my stuff. The guy said I have assets, after all. I get to decide who drains my checking account, who gets to divvy up my movies, and who gets to claim proud ownership of the huge box of old Entertainment Weekly magazines under my bed (they’ll be worth a fortune, I tell you!). Yet even as I enjoy the thought of having the power to give out what’s mine, it’s hard to stay excited when I start my mental walk through the distribution process. Is my brother really going to remember me fondly every time he casts misty eyes upon my laser printer? Is my sister really going to make a ritual of watching my treasured two-disk special edition Spider-Man DVD on my birthday every year? Maybe they will (who doesn’t love Spider-Man?), but there are so very few objects that really have lasting significance after a person is gone. Maybe my ring, or the silver cross I wear around my neck, or the pen I never leave home without, but even then all of those items are special because of the memories that go with them, not because they look good or write well. I may really want some special people to have some special things of mine by the time I make a (hopefully) graceful exit from this world, but if I can’t take it with me, I can’t see it very often making a difference who gets to use it once I’m gone.

Now I can’t find many last words to be shared, and I can’t find many possessions that I care enough about to make sure I know where they’re going after my funeral. Is the appeal of a will as fleeting and elusive for me as the allure of that power stapler?

Maybe, maybe not. Here’s the thing about office supplies: If I buy a binder in the hopes of filling it with a manuscript, that says much more about my desire to finish a manuscript than it does about any sort of need for a binder. If I work hard and stay disciplined, I can attain the kind of success that might have room for the possessions I think I need to own. I may one day really need that great big wooden desk with all the compartments, and I may publish enough writing to fill an impressive-looking filing cabinet. But when I get to that point, I’m pretty sure I’ll be much more proud of the contents of the cabinet than the cabinet itself. A will is a tool. It’s a way to provide the people you care about with the possessions and truths that will help them and make them stronger, but it’s useless without having people you love and things to share. So maybe I’ll keep wandering into Staples, and maybe I’ll spend a few spare moments mulling over who gets my stereo after I’m done with it. But I’d like to hope I spend much more energy on what I already have, right here and right now.