A series of experiences in my life have opened my eyes to a whole new train of thought about my digital life. I don't think I even saw it coming. It was like an idea that crept up on me stealthily, once step at a time, and then suddenly pounced on me without any warning.

It began with my dad's illness and eventual death. My dad knew he was dying and he wanted to make sure that his affairs were in order before he met his end. That meant asking me to help him write up a simple will. He didn't have much, but he wanted to make sure that there was no question that everything he had would belong to my mom, his wife of thirty years, when he died. I looked up some templates and together we wrote and printed his will. In the process of going over his assets, he concluded it would be easiest if I scrapped his car for him. He was no longer fit to drive and he didn't want my mom to have to deal with the title while she was mourning his death. Then, we sat down as a family and planned his funeral.

Then, there was my friend who did a short, weekly segment on a local radio station. When it ended, he asked me to help him gather up all of the original recordings for which he already had the transcripts. I never got around to it despite my best intentions. He died almost a year after my dad did. Somewhere, among a CD in my closet, attachments in my email, and the radio studio, there should still exist copies of all those original recordings. And I imagine his widow would appreciate it very much if I rounded them all up so she could have them.

The subliminal seed was planted when one or more technology podcasts I listened to began talking about what happens to our Internet service accounts when we die. Will your Facebook account live on forever like a digital snapshot of your life? Will your family be able to log into your accounts to see what you left behind? Some one had created a service that will share predetermined updates via your Twitter account after your death, assuming you log in often enough to let it know you're still alive.

Much later, I'd say at least a year later, one of my podcasts had a discussion about Vivian Maier. She was an accomplished photographer who lived here life in complete anonymity because she never shared her work with anyone. One person compared her to Emily Dickinson, who's best work wasn't published until after her death. Both women had secret, creative lives that they kept hidden away until death and their accomplishment was only made known once others were allowed to go through their personal effects.

Finally, I prepared to move sixteen hundred miles from the country's extreme north to its extreme south. This resulted in two things happening. I was reminded of all of my dads floppy disks and CDs that I still hadn't finished going through, and I made plans to ensure that I didn't lose any of my computer files during the move. I made two copies of everything, one on my laptop and one on an encrypted hard drive. Then, I left the encrypted hard drive with my friend in case my laptop got lost or damaged.

That's it. The stage was set. I stumbled across my dad's will on my computer and it all came crashing down on me. What will I leave behind? What will it be like when someone begins going through my personal effects some day?

I have almost nothing except my digital life. My writing? Digital. My photography? Digital. My artwork? Digital. Keepsakes? Drawings? Paper notes? I have almost none of these. And I'm in the process of digitizing the last of my paper notes. What's more, I've begun using more and more encryption in my life and I already use long, cryptic passwords for everything, with a unique one for every account. And the little bit I have that's not encrypted will be very soon.

So, what then? How will anyone go through everything I've written, all of my emails, all of my photographs, and so on? Does it matter? If there's going to be anything left behind, it's going to be a deliberate choice on my part, but how will I accomplish it? Do I just write down all of my passwords? Are there things I don't want them to see? Even if I'm not brilliant and worthy of fame, surely someone will care. How will they feel if everything I ever created is lost, if my passwords die with me?

Thus, I find myself on a quest to make sense of my digital life. It's no longer just about backups and security. Now, it's also about legacy.