by Roger S. Jones

Roger S. Jones died on April 2, 2011. A note from Louise, his wife, received on April 10 read

My husband Roger S. Jones died a week ago after a whirlwind bout with cancer (three weeks from diagnosis to death). He was so pleased that you were publishing his article. The irony is that he never had the chance to complete the project he wrote about: to collect his writings and e-publish them.

I keep thinking about dying. Not right now, mind you. Just in a general kind of way. And I’m not being morbid either; I’m in no rush. It’s just that at my age, it’s hard not to think about end-of-life matters. It’s certainly not about any funeral or memorial plans. Even less am I concerned with the disposal of my body. In fact, cremation is my choice, and what they do with the remains matters little to me.

Rather, it has something to do with a kind of obligation I feel as I approach the end. Nobody has told me that I must do anything in particular—nobody, that is, except me. But for some reason, I worry about tidying things up and finishing them off. And for the most part that means my writing. My possessions and any money will be disposed of or distributed in a meaningful way according to my will, so I’m not really concerned about that. But what I don’t want is for someone to act as a kind of literary executor for me and make decisions about what to do—if anything—with my growing written output. In truth, I don’t trust anyone to do that job, so I feel I’d better get it done myself. Am I being vain? Perhaps.

Most of my writing is in the form of my journal, which is now 38 years old and contains over three and a half million words. The first 25 years’ worth is illegible and contains a lot of junk. The last 13 years have been kept digitally on a computer and have been printed out, so there’s no problem with legibility. There may be many passages worth rereading, and I would prefer to select them myself. Also, like many other authors, I wish to avoid any embarrassment or unintentional disclosures by keeping my journal out of the public domain for 25 years after my death.

And yet, I don’t feel as pressed about my journal as I do about the other million words or so I’ve written in the form of memoirs, short stories, books, essays, and poems. I have to confess this feeling of urgency is the principal motivation behind my desire to e-publish and my preoccupation with it. Furthermore, I’ve learned in a recent publishing workshop that this might just be the best time for self-publishing in many years—if not ever.

So I have begun to collect, categorize, and organize my writings, which is a good start, and I plan to consult a literary agent about the best way to proceed. Apart from a few recently published essays and short stories, and the two popular physics books I published a number of years ago, I have an unpublished play, two unpublished books, and many other essays, short stories, memoirs, poems, etc.—not to mention my mom’s memoirs, which I spent a whole summer editing.

I’ve even convinced myself that I should begin by publishing immediately whatever is in closest to final form—probably my books on music and relativity for kids—and not wait until I get everything else edited and finalized. That’s just an obvious delaying tactic, and I’ve done far too much of that already. So I’ve got my work cut out for me, and I’ve even found some good people to help me.

But what still puzzles me is why I care about this at all.

On the other hand, trying to figure this out is just another form of procrastination. Maybe it’ll come to me as I proceed, and maybe it won’t. But so what! I see it as a worthwhile and meaningful task, and that’s what my life seems to be about these days—finding meaning through work, groups, reading, tasks, people, physical exercise, helping others, etc. I have certainly found great joy by returning to teaching. So I am determined to move ahead with my e-publishing, come what may. If I really don’t care about end matters, then what difference does it make how successful I am? It’s just something I want to do. No more questions!

Originally from New York City, Roger S. Jones was a professor of physics at the University of Minnesota, where he taught for 32 years before retiring in 1999. He published articles, short stories, poetry, and two popular books on physics, wrote many unpublished works, and lived in Minneapolis, where he enjoyed writing mostly creative nonfiction until his last days.