Directionless Direction
On following instinct into what’s right without knowing where it leads—writing, inquiry, focus, the distraction of productivity, and creative mediumship.
The rain returned today, albeit lightly. While it’s technically rainy season now, we’ve had summer sun for some weeks straight. El Veranillo, it’s called—the little summer. When it rains here, everyone is pressed apart or together—held in place by the downfall, the condition of the roads, and whether or not the power is out. Those with “rainy season lovers” cuddle; the single ones either sign off or take their chances with a DM; the families cook and play games.
I’m alone tonight, which has become pretty uncommon. My boyfriend and I spend most nights together at either my place or his, and when we’re apart I’m often with friends for dinner or salsa dancing. Long stretches of silent time alone made up the majority of my first year here. I didn’t know anyone other than my surf coach when I first arrived, and I knew that the ability to exist invisibly was temporary, so I relished it. I watched the sunset alone in secluded places, cooked at home, listened to the jungle and felt the expanse of time and space around me. Back then, I didn’t fill it. I didn’t listen to music, I didn’t read, I didn’t care where my phone was. I sat, listened, watched, and sensed. Sometimes it was frightening, occasionally boring, but overall it was extremely important to maintain through discomfort, I believed. In that state, and space, we can hear ourselves and the world. I had just left my life; it was imperative that I listen before I leapt into whatever was next.
Tonight I was doing the same and what I felt was that I wanted to write. (Finding and following this feeling in even the smallest ways is an exercise that strengthens the muscles of self awareness and confidence.) What exactly to write, I wondered? Beside me are three journals: One is my current daily diary; another from 2024 which I’m using to write the latest Journals from the Jungle; and the other, from 2022, I’m using to write my next book. Several dozen more journals—spanning 2022 to 2025—are nearby. Those too, are for the next book. I believe it’s all there already. The form it will take exactly is yet unknown to me. I will know when I know.
The open tabs on my computer include this Google Doc, which is 35 pages of freestyle writing like what we’ve got here. Another is titled “THE NEXT BOOK.” It’s 63 pages of miscellany—an extremely detailed and out-of-date Table of Contents that I can’t bring myself to delete, several attempts at the opening pages of the book, and too many ideas, lines, and references, which I’ll both thank and hate myself for later when I have to sort through them. The next tab is a 44-page book proposal that I shared with my agent last month in New York and which I’ll revisit and revise after I’ve written the next book (not before) because, as I learned, when it’s a literary work rather than prescriptive non-fiction (see: Naturally) it’s bought not on the strength of the proposal, but on the work itself. Which means I’m writing what I most believe in, rather than following a plan that’s been agreed upon (and purchased) by an agent and publisher. That’s exciting. And, once again, I find myself proceeding into the complete unknown with only my instincts to guide me.
I also found nearly 200 pages of writing for “the next book” from around the time I was beginning Naturally. I’d completely forgotten about it and when I rediscovered it this week, I had to walk away to process. I suspect it may be a book of its own. I’ve never written more than I did during that time and it was entirely a result of how much I was feeling. See point above about following feelings. And the mass of raw material that I’ve since leapt into is a metaphor for every other kind of leap.
What’s most notable about this directionless direction is that it’s what I’ve always dreamed of: I am now tasked with creating the piece of art that I, alone, most believe in. Everything I’ve built has been based on my vision, but it’s always also been informed by an audience, with whom I’ve been in constant contact for decades. Now, there is no buy-in, no contract, no guarantee—only my conviction that this story I have to tell matters. And that I have the words—and the way with them—to tell it. I do not know how long it will take, nor what shape it will take when it finally reaches the finish line, but I do know that I can get it there.
