Feeling: Unusual
Listening to: Erin McKeown - How to Open My Heart in 4 Easy Steps
Reading/Watching: Sword-Born

Wow, entry #601. This journal is officially longer than any book I've ever written.

Okay, so it's been longer for quite some time, but there was one point when Alanorre's Revenge was 270 pages, single-spaced... writing fantasy made me long-winded.

This also means there's no chance in hell I'll someday wind up the next Virginia Woolf, with my journal in a series of hardback volumes on a neglected upper-story library shelf. The idea is bewitching, but at the thought of going back and highlighting interesting moments since my two-year anniversary edition, I felt slightly ill. If even I can't stand that much reminiscing, no way anyone else could.

Instead of looking back, I'm in the mood to look ahead. I can't possibly think about it in any sort of specific way, but here's what I'd like:

In one week, I'd like to be developing my great pictures from our trip to RenFest.

In one month, I'd like to be studying for finals, and confident that I won't be on academic probation after this semester.

In one year, I want to be about to graduate. Filling out grad school apps, taking the GRE, performing my senior recital, applying for my passport so I can finally take that self-funded trip to Europe.

In two years, I'd like to be working as a TA in a graduate program at a good music school.

In five years, I'd like to be in a meaningful relationship of some kind, either performing for a living or possibly getting my doctorate.

In ten years, I'd like to be married and working on kids, a choir director at a good highschool or college, using winter and summer breaks to write novels. I'd also like to have one of those novels published.

In twenty years, I'd like to be a director that's well-respected, perhaps giving choral workshops and being a guest conductor for region/all-state choirs, etc.

In thirty years, I'd like to have written enough books to have my name bigger than the title on the book jacket. I'd like to see my works on the New Releases table in Barnes & Noble. And I'd like to be the kind of director that gets to fly around the world to conduct and clinic special groups.

In forty years, I'd like to be retired, telling grandkids that I graduated highschool in the year 2000, and watch them gape and say, awed, "Wow, you're really old."

In fifty years, I'd like to be the kind of old lady that can't stop working in some way, writing books and puttering around with flowers and teasing my husband about the hair growing out of his ears and the way his snore has gotten louder every year. I'd like to grumble about how he has insisted on having the first shower in the morning for the past fifty-odd years, so that I've forgotten what hot water feels like, and look at frizzy white hair in the mirror and miss when it was curly and red and the bane of my existence, and think irritatedly that I never have the energy to dust off those silly golden-anniversary ornaments on the mantle anymore.

In sixty years, I'd like to have flowers on my grave, my husband beside me, and a granddaughter who still thinks of me when she sings.

In a hundred years, I want my books to be collecting dust on an upper-story library shelf.

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