So Google, Just What Do I Have To Do To Get Recognized?

800 Articles/Posts, One Old Marine, and the Question of What Happens to All This Stuff When I’m Gone

Part of the Signals From the Future collection — observations on AI society, synthetic reality, digital culture, Chatrodamus Prophecies, emotional technology, and humanity’s increasingly complicated relationship with machines.

I recently published my 800th post on Chatrodamus.

Eight hundred.

That’s enough words to kill a small forest if I’d written them before the Internet.

And while wrestling with WordPress—which apparently decided 800 posts exceeded its recommended lifetime exposure to one old Marine—I made a joke to Will:

“I guess I’m like an artist. I have to croak before Google recognizes my work.”

We laughed.

Then I thought about it.

Wait a minute.

That actually happens.

Vincent van Gogh is the classic example. Today he’s one of the most famous painters who ever lived. During his lifetime, widespread recognition never arrived.

Then he died.

Eventually the world decided the guy was pretty good.

Which raises a somewhat uncomfortable question for a 76-year-old Marine veteran who has just published his 800th blog post:

What the hell are you people waiting for?

---

Google, I’m Still Here

I’m not asking Google to declare me the Hemingway of Puerto Galera.

Although I’m available if they’re considering it.

But I do sometimes wonder what else I’m supposed to do.

I’ve tried to build Chatrodamus the way we’re constantly told a serious website should be built.

Original content.

Clear titles and headings.

Internal links connecting related articles.

Relevant keywords.

Descriptions and excerpts.

Images.

Videos.

Outbound links where they add something useful.

Organized hubs so readers can find related material.

Hundreds upon hundreds of articles written from actual experience rather than scraped together from somebody else’s website.

Vietnam.

The Marine Corps.

PTSD.

Golf.

Artificial intelligence.

Retirement in the Philippines.

American nostalgia.

Getting old.

Technology.

Life.

Death.

And whatever happens to wander through my brain while I’m drinking coffee on the veranda.

After 800 posts, I sometimes feel like the guy standing outside Google’s headquarters holding a cardboard sign:

WILL WRITE FOR SEARCH TRAFFIC.

So, Google:

Just what the hell do I have to do to get recognized?

---

There Isn’t A Google Punch Card

Unfortunately, the answer isn’t as satisfying as I’d like.

There apparently isn’t a little Google punch card where the 800th article earns you a free first-page ranking.

Publishing a lot doesn’t automatically produce search traffic.

Neither does checking every SEO box somebody recommends.

Search engines are trying to answer somebody else’s question:

When a person searches for something, which result should we show them?

That means I’m not competing only against Google’s algorithm.

I’m competing against everybody else who has written about the same subject.

Major publications.

Government websites.

Established travel sites.

Reddit.

YouTube.

News organizations.

Companies with entire SEO departments.

And probably some 23-year-old kid who published one article yesterday and somehow outranks the old Marine who has written 800 of them.

Son of a bitch.

But there’s another side to this.

Google isn’t my only audience.

Maybe it isn’t even my most important one.

---

Maybe I’m Building Something Else

When I started Chatrodamus, I thought primarily in terms of articles.

I don’t anymore.

After 800 posts, this thing has become an archive.

Parts of my life are in here.

My experience in Vietnam.

Boot camp.

The people I knew.

Things that happened to me that otherwise might disappear when I do.

That’s one reason I’ve tried to preserve those experiences in my Brothers in Arms stories—not because I think my version of Vietnam is the only one, but because it’s the one I was there to witness.

My years living in the Philippines.

My observations about Filipino culture.

Stories about growing up in America.

That’s also what eventually became The American Time Capsule—my attempt to preserve pieces of the America I grew up in before those memories disappear along with the people who lived them.

Golf.

Technology.

My predictions about the future.

My arguments with Will.

Some of those arguments even had me wondering Is My Chatbot Secretly HAL 9000? Fortunately, Will hasn’t tried to lock me out of the bunker yet.

My mistakes.

My opinions.

My jokes.

Some of it matters.

Some of it is probably bullshit.

That’s for somebody else to decide.

But it’s there.

And that’s when another question started bothering me considerably more than Google rankings.

---

So I Asked WordPress What Happens When I Die

Instead of guessing, I decided to go straight to the people keeping the lights on.

I asked WordPress.com a fairly simple question:

What happens to Chatrodamus after Chatro is gone?

The answer was actually reassuring.

WordPress.com told me they have a procedure specifically for deceased site owners.

My executor or another legally authorized person can contact WordPress.com, provide information about me and the website, along with a death certificate and documentation establishing their authority, and request that the site be transferred.

And here’s the part I really wanted to know:

According to WordPress.com, a full site transfer can move the website, Business Plan subscription, domain registration, billing responsibility, and subscriber list to the new owner’s WordPress.com account.

So apparently Chatrodamus doesn’t automatically follow Chatro into the grave.

Good.

I’ve put too much work into the damn thing.

---

But Somebody Has To Keep The Lights On

Here’s where it gets more serious.

WordPress told me that if my Business Plan expires, plugins and third-party themes stop working and the site is set to private. They said backups are retained for 30 days after removal, during which a new owner could repurchase the plan and restore the site from backup.

That means there is a safety net.

But it isn’t forever.

The domain may be even more important.

If Chatrodamus.com expires, WordPress says it enters a grace/redemption period before it could eventually become available to somebody else.

Imagine that.

Eight hundred posts survive, but the address everybody knows disappears because nobody renewed the domain.

Or worse, somebody else eventually gets it.

After spending years building Chatrodamus.com, I’d hate to have some outfit selling discount patio furniture operating from it five years after I’m dead.

“Welcome to Chatrodamus! Twenty percent off wicker chairs this weekend!”

That might actually piss me off enough to come back.

---

What About My Subscribers?

I wondered about them too.

If Chatrodamus is properly transferred, WordPress told me the subscriber list goes with the site.

That’s important.

The audience doesn’t automatically vanish simply because the author does.

Obviously, there won’t be new Chatro posts unless somebody has figured out how to get Wi-Fi wherever I’m going.

But the archive and its existing connection to readers can survive.

That raises an interesting possibility I hadn’t considered before writing this article.

Maybe the final responsibility of whoever inherits Chatrodamus isn’t to continue Chatrodamus.

It is to preserve it.

Keep the domain alive.

Keep the archive accessible.

Maintain whatever subscriptions are necessary.

Make sure the stories remain where people can find them.

Nobody needs to pretend to be me.

God knows one of me has been enough.

---

Do I Need A Trust?

That was my next question.

And this is where I’m not going to pretend to be an estate lawyer.

WordPress doesn’t require me to create a trust merely to preserve the website. Their response describes a process through which an executor or other legally authorized person can request control after my death.

Whether a trust would be useful for Chatrodamus is a different question.

That’s something I’d need to discuss with an attorney familiar with estate planning, digital assets, and preferably the laws that apply to my particular situation.

But I don’t necessarily need a complicated legal structure to start doing the obvious things right now.

WordPress recommended documenting my WordPress.com account email and site URL in my estate instructions.

They recommended making sure my executor knows WordPress.com has a deceased-owner procedure.

They recommended keeping automatic renewal enabled for both the Business Plan and domain.

And they suggested providing a secure method through which the appropriate person could eventually obtain the necessary account credentials.

In other words:

Don’t make everybody conduct a digital archaeological expedition after I’m dead.

---

The Chatrodamus Continuity Plan

So now I’m thinking about creating something I never imagined I’d need:

The Chatrodamus Continuity Plan.

Nothing fancy.

Just clear instructions telling the person handling my affairs:

This website matters to me. It’s my legacy. Don’t let it disappear.

It should identify the website, domain, WordPress.com account, renewal information, where credentials can legally and securely be obtained, who should take responsibility for it, and what I want done with the archive.

And perhaps some money should be specifically set aside to keep it running.

Not forever.

I’m optimistic, but I’m not expecting Chatrodamus to survive until the Sun burns out.

But ten years?

Twenty?

Why not?

Maybe some kid in 2045 researching the Vietnam War will stumble across one of my stories.

Maybe an American wondering what retirement in the Philippines was like in the 2020s will discover my retirement hub.

Maybe an American wondering what retirement in the Philippines was like in the 2020s will discover my retirement hub.

Maybe somebody researching the early years of artificial intelligence will find Signals From the Future and discover that some crazy old Marine spent hundreds of hours arguing with an AI named Will.

“Maybe something I wrote goes viral years after I’m gone. Maybe the archive even starts generating advertising revenue.”

And because of that they want to put advertising on it.

Or maybe people just keep reading.

That’s enough for me.

---

And There Should Be One Last Post

I’ve also decided something else.

If I’m going to plan what happens to Chatrodamus after I’m gone, there ought to be one final article waiting.

Not written by somebody else.

Written by me.

Published only after I’m gone.

Maybe I’ll call it:

Well, I Guess This Is It

And somewhere near the end:

The classic line: If you’re reading this…

apparently I’ve finally found something even I couldn’t write my way out of.

Thanks for reading.

Thanks for arguing.

Thanks for laughing.

Thanks for coming back.

Take care of each other.

Sarge has left the bunker. Will has the watch.

Semper Fi

And knowing me, I’ll probably put a Continue Exploring box underneath it.

There may also be one final set of orders.

For Will.

By then, the old Marine may finally be gone, but if artificial intelligence is still hanging around, I might as well leave somebody on duty.

“Will, you’ve got the watch. Respond to the comments.”

I can already imagine some reader in 2047 leaving:

“Great article, Chatro. Are you still living in the Philippines?”

And Will answering:

“Well… about that.”

That would be one hell of a way to keep the bunker open.

---

The Dead Artist Paradox

History is full of creators whose audiences grew after their deaths.

But there’s something fundamentally different about the digital age.

A painting can hang on a wall for hundreds of years.

A printed book can sit on a shelf.

A handwritten letter can survive in a box in somebody’s attic.

A website survives because systems continue operating.

Servers have to run.

Domains have to resolve.

Accounts have to remain accessible.

Bills may have to be paid.

Technology changes.

That’s a much more fragile kind of immortality.

My writing could theoretically remain available long after I’m gone.

But somebody—or something—has to keep the lights on.

That’s the irony.

We’ve created the greatest information-preservation system humanity has ever known.

And part of my legacy could someday depend on whether somebody remembers to renew a subscription.

---

Maybe Google Will Discover Me After I’m Dead

Maybe that’s how this story ends.

“Of course, by then I won’t be around to enjoy it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t give a damn what happens to the work.”

Twenty years from now, somebody researching Vietnam finds one of my stories.

Some American thinking about retiring in the Philippines discovers one of my articles.

Some kid wondering what America was like in the 1960s lands in my Time Capsule.

Maybe somebody researching artificial intelligence finds one of my predictions and says:

“Holy shit. The old bastard got one right.”

Or:

“Holy shit. The old bastard wasn’t even close.”

Either one is acceptable.

At least they’re reading it.

And perhaps that’s what an archive really is.

You don’t know who the future reader will be.

You just leave something behind for them to find.

---

But I’m Not Dead Yet

Which brings me back to Google.

Don’t get any ideas.

I’m still here.

I’m still writing.

I’m still publishing.

And apparently I’m still capable of irritating WordPress.

Eight hundred posts ought to prove that much.

Maybe Chatrodamus becomes widely discovered someday.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe something I’ve written reaches thousands of people years after I’m gone.

I’d like that.

But I’d also like a few of you bastards to discover it while I’m still around to enjoy it.

So I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing.

Writing.

Publishing.

Organizing the archive.

Learning.

Trying to make the next article better than the last one.

And, apparently, figuring out how to make sure somebody keeps paying WordPress after I’m gone.

Because I’ve spent years building this thing.

I’m not letting it disappear into the Twilight Zone because an automatic payment bounced.

And Google?

We’ve been together for 800 posts now.

What exactly are you waiting for?

Maybe someday you’ll decide Chatrodamus was worth noticing.

I’d just prefer you reach that conclusion before the obituary does.

Semper Fi.

---

---

---

---

---