Two years of reading, one notebook, and no idea what to do with it

I have a notebook. It is about half full and it contains two years of reading, thinking and arguing with myself, and it is completely useless because none of it has ever been tested against another person.

Thirty eight, northern quarter, in a flat above a shop where the noise stops at eleven. Two years of reading and zero experience, which I now understand is not a head start. It only means I know the words.

The most useful thing in the notebook is a list I made last winter of things I had assumed I wanted and no longer think I do. It is longer than the list of things I still want. Working that out on my own saved somebody a lot of wasted effort, and I would like credit for having done it before writing to anybody rather than during.

What is left on the wanted list is unremarkable: structure through a week, tasks I am held to, a woman who is particular and says when a thing is not right, and no interest at all in anything performed.

What I am asking for is somebody willing to start a person from nothing and go at whatever pace suits her. I do not need to be eased into anything. I need to be told what to do and corrected when I get it wrong.

What I do not want is to be treated as promising. I am not promising. I am untested, which is a different thing, and the notebook proves nothing at all.