So, about a year ago, I decided to move to Madrid. I bought a one-way plane ticket and told myself that I’d go live the life of a struggling writer, getting by on late nights with fleeting friends and really cheap wine. I’d perfect my Spanish by immersing myself in Spanish culture and dedicate six months or so to finishing my novel. I’d be writing and living on a budget.
The great thing about being an adult is that nobody knows what the fuck they’re doing either—life is just a matter of guessing until somebody tells you that you fucked up, and then fixing that fuck-up. And you keep going, and you keep guessing. Some people just seem better at it because they’ve been doing it longer. So, the best thing for now is to just do all the tiny things that