It seems that the big news on the funeral front these days is holographic eulogies—technology that allows a holographic image of the dear departed to get up a say a few words to the folks at the funeral. According to the funeral industry trade papers this is a way for funeral homes to recoup some of the revenue they’re losing because cremation has become the finish of choice for so many people.

As the head of the hologram company says, “If you’re a funeral director, and they choose an $800 cremation over a $14,000 funeral, you have find another way to add value.”

I personally think that it’s one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard. But I don’t have to worry about it. The hologram company is marketing its services to “high wealth individuals,” which they define as someone with a net worth of more than $30 million. I’m not there yet.

The idea of dead people doing their own eulogies does solve a couple of problems. We’ve all been to funerals where the preacher doesn’t appear to have met the person in the casket before he or she passed. The departed is sent on its final journey on a pallet of platitudes and nobody leaves the funeral feeling any better for what’s said.

Or, conversely, where the preacher does know the deceased, but couldn’t really tell the truth about him or her without fearing a slander suit. So, back to the platitudes.

However, if we substitute the dead guy doing his own eulogy, we may find the cure far worse than the illness. For instance, I can imagine encountering this scenario:

I guess you’re all surprised to see me. It’s a miracle of technology. But you’re not nearly as surprised to see me as I am to see my old partner, Kenny. Especially after all the things you said about me.  And you thought you were talking behind my back.

And, Francis, now that I can finally get in a word edgewise, there are a few things I’d like to tell you…

Or, we might find that the guest of honor was not a bit more interesting in the deceased version than he was in the live one, and that the holographic eulogy was a serious waste of money, money better spent on food for the wake.

I believe there’s a better solution, one that solves the problems without creating what could be an infinite stream of unintended consequences. It takes two things.

The first is that you get in really tight with a preacher. Make sure that he knows who you are and thinks well of you. (Alternately, you could choose someone else to do the eulogy, anybody you could depend on to show up and say good things about you.)

The second is the harder one: give them some ammunition. Do some good things in your life that make the eulogy believable.

I’m convinced that everybody gets to choose the way they’re remembered. If we want to be remembered as someone who cared for his fellow man, we have to actually do things that demonstrate that we care for our fellow man. What they say about us when we are dead is—unless we want to be sent off with platitudes—dictated by the way we live our life.

Years ago I started a short story with the following line: Andy Tatum was 35 years old when he began to worry about his eulogy. He decided he had to start living his life more intentionally.

I’d just been to my father’s funeral. The Baptist Church in my home town had recently called a new pastor, and he didn’t really know dad. It wasn’t his fault. Just a circumstance. There were a lot of good things that you could say about Dad; he was a good man who could be trusted and depended on. He didn’t smoke, drink, or cuss. He was very good at what he did. He valued his family, nuclear and extended. A lot of things. None of which came up at the funeral.

Dad had missed thing number one, which meant that his memorial didn’t get the full benefit of thing number two.

I’m sure that there are a lot of people who think that it doesn’t matter a lot; if you’re dead, you are beyond worrying about what the living say about you. That’s probably true, but I still think it’s important, sort of the cherry on the top of the sundae. It gives those who care one more way to honor your memory and remember your life.

But I’m convinced that my funeral eulogy is not a DIY job.