I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’m working on a novel set in a time and place so foreign from my own. It’s the book I’ve always wanted to see on shelves, and yet as I write it, even though I’ve poured a few years of research and traveling into this, that troublesome voice keeps gnawing at me.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
I disassociate at times, relying too heavily on self-help podcasts and influencers on Tik Tok that have perfected the art of saying a sentence that slices through the truth of life. I continually blame myself for the end of my marriage, turning to the wealth of resources on relationships and therapy for a way to become better. Then I find out my process of seeking answers is a trauma response and I collapse in defeat.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
On Monday nights, I go to a dance studio with my roommate and we practice a dance called Sevillanas with our teacher from Cadiz. The shoes pinch my feet. They’re genuine leather and supposed to mold to my shape the more I wear them. I attempt to keep up with a dance instructor who I understand a good 60% of the time because this is Spanish and while I try so damn hard I still struggle to understand what people are saying.
I’m a horrible dancer. Always have been. I even wrote an essay about it some time ago. But whatever. I was going to take a class. Yes I wish to have more graceful movement, but even further, I wish to feel fully comfortable in my body.
I have no idea what I’m doing. And I’m going to embrace it.
I want to end this letter with a beautiful Q&A from The Reading about Talent. I hope it alights you the way it did to me.