All of my writing is for today, the present moment, right now. Next week can take care of itself, and immortality won't matter anyway.
Once I used to lie on my bed or ride buses imagining tv discussions of my great works after I died. I was like Tom Sawyer (or was it Huck Finn?) witnessing his funeral.
The only life I imagined I'd ever have would come when I was no longer able to experience it.
The Kerouac publishing industry doesn't mean jack to Jack now though, does it?