I dreamt about my fiction professor from college last night--a courage pusher. I haven't thought about her in a very long time. Not that she didn't play a huge part in the formative years of my writing education. She's just not on the mem rotation. But there she was, with her maroon lips and long grey hair. Big smile. She's a horrible liar. I could tell she hated what I was writing, but she found something, some nugget she could sort of rally behind. I wasn't asking to feel what I didn't deserve to feel. Just to feel unafraid.
So I guess if you want to be immortal, don't worry about making the great American masterpiece, or making legislation, or even making a baby. Just make people unafraid.