Towards the end of his life, my grandfather began carrying a notebook wherever he went, writing down every minute detail of his day as best he could. He wasn’t working on a memoir or gathering ideas for a novel, but simply trying to keep track of his memories. At this point, he was years-deep into a battle with Alzheimer’s, and the notebook was his attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity, preparing himself for the five or so minutes later when he will have forgotten whatever it was he had written down. It was a valiant effort, but to our…