Ewwww, I’ll be 54 years old. I might be a grandmother, I might have a daughter-in-law and/or a son-in-law. I’ll probably still be married and I’ll have written at least one book, if not two and I’d be working on another book. The first book would be a compilation of all the posts I’ve generated during the year 2011. These posts would be the foundation upon which I would explore each topic more extensively. It would be a type of memoir and self-analysis combined. I am not hinting that it would be a hit or popular, it would just be written. That’s something in and of itself. These days self-publishing is becoming more of an option and maybe it will become even easier down the road when I’m more or less ready to try my fortune in the publishing world.

If there is a niche for my first book and some seem to like it, then the pressure is really on, because supposedly the sophomore book or album (if you are a musician) is always the hardest one because how do you top being the “fresh new voice”? You have to continue with what made the first book work and that’s presumably your style and make it a whole new experience in the second book. The expectations are always higher than when you were unknown, and it only stands to reason that they would be. But I’m getting ahead of myself because I haven’t even finished 2011, I don’t even know if I have anything whatsoever resembling any type of memoir or self-analysis, and why would anyone even be interested? I’m putting unnecessary expectations on myself, even though writing a book is the eventual goal, all because of a topic. I hope that there is a book somewhere inside of me because one would think that with all this writing everyday for a few hours at a time, I would at least accomplish something tangible and hopefully, eventually generate an income from it. It does get depressing that when you do something that you really enjoy, even when you’re at the very beginning of the undertaking, you still get sucked into the whole money equation. I often feel guilty that I spend so much time writing and not receiving anything tangible from it. This guilt applies to others in my life that are disappointed that I don’t have a career outside the home. I sometimes hear their voices inside my head and it spoils the pleasure I get from writing a little. I can usually turn it off but tonight for some reason the thought of ten years down the line and where would I be, gave me quite a bit of stress. Hopefully it will all turn out great in the end, I mean that is all anyone can hope for.