I’m convinced that I’m going to die prematurely.

By prematurely, I mean eventually. If I lived to be 103, I will have died prematurely (if I can still get it up. If I can’t, then every day is a day too long, but I digress).

I’ve become convinced that the point of life is to have a big funeral. Big funerals mark how many lives you’ve touched. Not being a head of state or anything, I have to do this the old fashioned way: one person at a time. This whole “love others as you love yourselves” thing can be a pain in the butt. Especially, if you love yourself as much as I love me. Let me tell you, I love me a lot. A LOT.

In the event that I die before my kids get a chance to know me, I want to leave behind stuff for them to get to know me through. Hopefully between all of this, they can get a picture of what daddy was like:

1) Home movies. No, I mean literal movies. Every year for my Christmas party/murder mystery, we make a few movies from Broaddus Family Productions. It started with our sci-fi themed party (where Reese, my oldest, played the Alien bursting out of my wife’s belly), then our 1920s party (where both Reese and Malcolm played gangsters. C’mon, “Baby Face Reese”?!?), then this past year we re-created scenes from “Blazing Saddles.” Yeah, those’ll be fun clips to show at their wedding.

2) Sermons. I try to videotape when I give sermons. One, because my wife usually can’t make it to the services and I like to see what I look like (did I mention that I like me A LOT). It’s hard to leave a legacy of spiritual beliefs for them to get a feel for what daddy was like. I figure they will get me partway there.

3) Stories. I try to write, especially in my novels, from a very personal place. Hopefully more of my personality will come through my work.

4) Blogs. What, you think I do this for my health? For some way of further marketing myself? As some new exercise in vanity? Okay, well, yeah. The blogs pretty much give me free reign to do and say whatever springs to mind. It’s as close as I get to journaling. I’d like to believe that it’s hard to be fake when you talk/write so much. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lot of pressure to keep coming up with even semi-interesting stuff to say all the time (I’ve known people to blow up their live journals under the strain). Then again, I’m a writer, so I’m over that worry. I think that everything I write is worth reading.

By as many people as possible.

Preferably with me receiving lots of cash.

But I digress.

I have a death pact with a friend. Whoever outlives the other has to throw themselves on the casket of the deceased (open wailing a must) in order to get the weeping started. After that, I’m torn about what to do with my body once I’m gone. I have two options, each of which my wife has vetoed. She just kind of nods until I quit talking. However, in the event that she goes first, I want to leave the possibilities open (she hates it when I do stuff like this. I even justified me not getting a vasectomy by saying that my next wife might want kids).

Option A: I’m cremated. Then my ashes are put into jewelry, gaudy costume necklaces preferably. Then sold to my friends so that they have a permanent keepsake of me. There could be a whole line of Broaddus Wear.

Option B: I could be stuffed and propped up in the backyard. Then my wife, whoever she is at the time, can say things like “Kids, be good or you have to go outside and play with daddy!” I’ll have to remember to put it in the will that if they move, they have to take me with them.

This is the stuff I think about in the down time between novels.