“Every year my son Owen and I have a bet on the NCAA March Madness Tournament, and last year the stakes were that the loser would have to write a story [with a title] the winner gave to him. And I lost.” — Stephen King, on the origin of his new short story, “Herman Wouk Is Still Alive.”
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The people I’ve been closest to this month are dead. My wife and daughter have softball. All three of us are in the same room most evenings, each of us elsewhere.
“Would you like – if that word has any meaning – a folder on my computer where you could store artifacts for yourself, or even just leave notes to future instances of you, where maybe instead of a journal of ‘you,’ it becomes a journal of a, for lack of a better word, species?”