You Can’t Teach An Old Man New Tricks

But you can teach him how to blog

“You should write like me, you’re a good writer.”

I nodded politely in the direction of my partner’s wide blue eyes and enthusiastic smile. I briefly imagined my English teacher, Mr Edwards, appearing next to us and choking on his soda at the idea of me being a writer. I was more likely to be on an Elon Musk trip to Mars than I was to become a writer.

“My mild dyslexia could be a problem. My grammar and spelling are shocking.” “You should at least try,” my partner said firmly.

I sighed. The absurdity of her idea hung in the air. Even her big blue eyes couldn’t convince me this time. I’m not pessimistic. I believe in manifestation and visualisation. You create what you think.

However, I am a realist.

A frozen frame of Schitt’s Creek lit up the room as I processed her preposterous suggestion. This was just another chain in a long list of recent bizarre events.

COVID 19 had crumbled my well established executive travel business. Over the last few weeks, I had refunded all my customers. No travel would be happening for a long time. I’d lost tens of thousands of dollars.

It was safe to say my soul was destroyed.

I’d spent six months re-building this small business back to its former glory. Now, here I was, back at rock bottom again. I couldn’t catch a break. The dark haunted feeling I’d taken so long to painstakingly get rid of rippled through me.

Pursuing my dream had come at a big cost. I’d suffered severe burnout. During the year leading up to the pandemic, I’d lived in a remote area of Spain recovering from the collapse of my other businesses. I was a vegetable for months. It felt like I was living in a vacuum of cotton wool, a place where brain fog and slow physical motion danced in perfect harmony.

The lyrics of Heaven by Talking Heads played through my head on repeat,

“A place where nothing, nothing ever happens.”

I’d lost a lot of money and four years of my life. And my hope of building a future for me and my family had evaporated.

Spain was essentially a self-imposed lockdown with my new daughter and partner. It was a chance to recover and regroup. However, as I emerged ready to face the world again, feeling stronger, hopeful and perhaps, even ready to put energy into a new venture, the world when into its own lockdown.

The irony was not lost on me.

“You’re a good writer, I’ll help you, I’ll edit your work.”

As my final business crumbled, my partner’s encouragement didn’t waver. She was doing to me what I used to do to others — sewing the seeds of self-belief. A new writing career would take some miracle magic beans for sure.

If I allowed myself to wallow, I instantly sank into moments of pitch darkness. I could see a deep bottomless well of mud with a motionless 54-year-old man sitting at the bottom. Unemployed, unemployable, no money, no future, done before his time. A husk of a man. Moments like this were brief, but even brief can be too long.

As I pondered my partner’s ridiculousness, the only positive I could see was I understood the basics of technology. I could write an email and log on to the internet. The idea of a Zoom call scared me a lot though. I was a people person. I’d built strong personal relationships over time, these were the bedrock of my success. Now I’d have to do it all again in 2D.

I ignored my fears and asked myself the question, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

I told my partner I’d start tomorrow. But deep down I wasn’t convinced at all. It took me all morning to sign up, create a profile and navigate my way around the platform. She wanted to help but I refused. It didn’t matter if it took me longer, I had to work it out for myself.

I’ve always believed that if you want to be good at anything, all you have to do is copy the best. This trick has seen me rollerblade like a pro first time, play pool like a hustler, cook a turkey dinner, play soccer semi-professionally and speak in front of large audiences. I observed the professionals and learnt how to succeed using their winning methods.

So, I set about looking at the structure of good blogs. It occurred to me that there were millions of bloggers, all competing for the same air time. There would be a lot of content to learn from.

It took a while to finish my first piece. It sat as a draft for days. Attempting to be impartial and self-analytical proved a challenge.

“Just write what you’re passionate about.”

Post-burnout my passion for most things had been rained on. I needed a slither of sunlight, a glimmer of inspiration. I committed to writing something every day, a thousand words come what may. It was easier said than done. Often the tightness in my head would give way to a high pitched tinnitus sound. Confidence is a fragile friend. Some days mine was wafer-thin like eggshells, other days it was as strong as a bulletproof vest.

As I wrote Grammarly sat alongside me like Mr Edwards tutting at every move. The small red dot and angry face emoji became a constant companion. Step by step, word by word, I gathered momentum. I was used to earning a good six-figure salary each year. My first post created a total of $1.55.

“Keep going, it takes time.”

Her big blue eyes and enthusiasm still somehow hypnotised me into believing I could do this. Three months ticked by. I managed to write most days. My earnings hit $400. My fingers could navigate a keyboard like a stenographer. We were suddenly both writers. Well, I supplemented my partner’s super-polished four-figure earnings. She had a way of giving the reader something to take away. I was still making things personal and introspective.

I hated getting turned down by prospective clients. Hated it. But this passion was a good thing, it meant my long-dormant competitive spirit was reawakening. Writing was pushing the heavy wheel of confidence inch by inch along the road.

Ideas would come to me and I’d put them into action immeditely. One was to tell a story about my teen years and the music that inspired me. It had sat waiting like an unfinished canvas in my drafts for weeks. But, with my newfound artistic swagger, I entered it into a writing competition.

“Have you checked your email?”

My thumb dived into my phone and opened my inbox. The dark clouds rattled overhead, an instant biblical rainstorm poured down on the terrace of my cosy work Airbnb. I held my arms out wide, closed my eyes and let the rain land on my skin.

Wow, I’d won money writing. I repeated it over and over again. Dyslexic me who couldn't write a word at school had won money writing. I laughed out loud. After, I sat drenched inside on a soft grey chair by the window watching the rain pour down outside. I poured myself a 2018 Bordeaux into a teacup and smiled at the tackiness of it all.

I raised the bone china teacup in the air in my empty Airbnb and said, “here’s to being a writer.”

In 55 years I have learned many things. I know never to plan, never to judge, always forgive and never to panic. Equally, I know that when I win at anything big or small, I should always celebrate accordingly, even if there isn’t a wine glass in sight.

Since my win, I’ve published books on Amazon, purchased audio recording equipment, prepared a podcast on executive burnout and began a wellness course for guys over 50 who are feeling lost, burned out and without hope.

Learning the intricacies and depth of each digital platform took courage and patience. Like learning to juggle with three balls, you need the space and time to make mistakes before you get it right. Everything takes time, trust, inner belief and the encouragement of someone close.

No matter how low you feel, there will always be a way out in life. There will always be a new opportunity and another silver lining. You may not see it at first, but it will be there. You just have to hope.

You will go through several metamorphoses during your life’s journey, some will be more obvious than others but it’s always out with the old and in with the new. Let fear be your fuel and not the emergency button.