It's morbid, but I worry about someone someday placing sentimental value on a book that I never read or cared to read. What if my great-great-granddaughter wistfully picks up Mockingjay, imagining that she holds in her hands one of her great-great-grandmother's beloved books, when my actual childhood favorites are Bloomability and Ella Enchanted and Matilda and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban? Or what if, to clear some space, my descendants keep Falling Up instead of A Light in the Attic, thinking that I preferred the former? Or what if my annotations of The Confessions of St. Augustine make me seem like someone I'm not? Or what if my journals are read and taken out of context? Or, worst of all, what if it all just collects dust until a Mt. Rainier pyroclastic flow destroys it all?
This is what I'm thinking as I pack up these books. Don't even get me started on our record collection.