Maybe You Haven’t Failed. Maybe You’re Still in the Middle of the Story.

I’ve written myself into some terrible corners.

Literally.

When I was writing fiction, I once had my characters trapped inside a series of caves.

An army was coming after them.

Eventually, they were surrounded.

Backs against the wall.

Nowhere to go.

There was only one small problem...

I hadn’t a clue how to get them out either.

Not exactly Stephen King, was I?

I remember thinking a proper writer wouldn’t do this.

A proper writer would have the whole thing mapped out.

They’d know what happened next.

I didn’t.

So I’d walk the dog.

Watch TV.

Do something completely unrelated.

And eventually, when I stopped trying to wrestle the answer out of my brain...

Something would appear.

A way forward.

And I’d write the next chapter.

Funny thing is...

I’ve written myself into a few corners in real life too.

There was a period when my fiction books were making thousands of dollars.

Not hundreds.

Thousands.

For someone who’d spent years believing people like me didn’t do things like that, it was mind-blowing.

I’d heard the stories.

People writing books.

Making money online.

Working for themselves.

But those people always seemed to live on another planet.

Then suddenly I was doing it.

I was writing from home.

My books were selling.

My Amazon ads were working.

Money was coming in.

I’d finally broken orbit.

At least that’s how it felt.

But somewhere in the back of my mind was another thought.

This can’t last.

The other boot is going to drop.

Something will go wrong.

And eventually...

It did.

The income dropped.

Things changed.

And I found myself being pulled back towards the life I thought I’d escaped.

Job applications.

Interviews.

Normal wages.

Eventually sitting in a call centre doing a job I hated, wondering...

How the hell did I end up back here?

That was difficult.

Because I’d already seen the other side.

I’d had success.

Then I’d watched it slip through my fingers.

And there was embarrassment attached to that.

I’d let Catherine down.

I’d let myself down.

Maybe I’d had my shot and blown it.

It’s difficult to tell someone how to change their life when you feel you’ve goofed up your own.

I’d gone from being a small hero...

Back to zero.

Or at least that’s how I saw it.

But I was making a mistake.

I was judging the entire book by one chapter.

Imagine I’d written my life as one of my fiction stories.

Barry finally escapes the jobs he hates.

He writes books.

The books take off.

Money comes in.

Fantastic.

THE END.

Roll the credits.

Lovely little story.

Except life didn’t end there.

The income fell.

We lost our house.

I went back into jobs I didn’t particularly want.

There were nights when I lay in bed grinding my teeth with stress.

We lived in the countryside at the time.

If we lost the car, how would we get anywhere?

Where would we live?

What would happen to the kids?

Every road seemed blocked.

I’d written myself into another corner.

Except this time I wasn’t controlling the characters.

I was one of them.

And here’s what I couldn’t see then.

The corner wasn’t the ending.

It was just the part of the story where I couldn’t see the next page.

Losing that house felt like failure.

Would I volunteer to go through it again?

Not a chance.

But strangely, I wouldn’t erase it either.

We ended up in a nicer house.

We’re in town now.

Life is more convenient.

And Catherine and I discovered something worth far more than a house.

We discovered we could rely on each other when things went badly wrong.

Neither of us ran for the door.

We stuck together.

Kept the family together.

Raised our kids.

Found a way through.

I couldn’t see any of that while I was grinding my teeth in bed.

Of course I couldn’t.

I hadn’t lived the next chapter yet.

That’s the problem with the messy middle.

When you’re reading someone else’s story, the difficult chapter makes sense.

You know there’s another page coming.

When you’re living your own...

It feels like the ending.

I think the internet has made this worse.

We’re constantly seeing completed stories.

Zero to millionaire.

Unknown to 500,000 followers.

Overweight to marathon runner.

Employee to entrepreneur.

Everything squeezed into a 60-second video with dramatic music underneath it.

And if our journey takes five minutes longer than theirs...

We assume we’ve failed.

But real life doesn’t happen like that.

There isn’t a narrator leaning over your shoulder saying:

“Don’t worry, Barry. This horrible bit becomes important in Chapter 17.”

You just have to keep writing.

And that’s pretty much where I am now.

I don’t know if my YouTube channel will take off.

I don’t know whether Substack will eventually provide an income.

I don’t know what products I’ll create.

I don’t know what services I might offer.

I don’t know exactly where the audience will come from.

And I certainly don’t know where the money will come from.

Years ago, that uncertainty would probably have terrified me.

Now?

I’m trying to give life as many opportunities as possible to get back to me.

I write.

I publish.

I record videos.

I put ideas into the world.

And I see what comes back.

I’m still writing the chapter.

Maybe that’s where you are too.

Maybe you’re 40.

And you’re looking backwards thinking...

I’ve made a mess of this.

Maybe you have.

I certainly have in places.

But messing up a few chapters doesn’t mean you’ve ruined the book.

You only guarantee that when you decide there won’t be another chapter.

That’s the bit you still control.

You can take another action tomorrow.

Write something.

Make something.

Apply for something.

Learn something.

Publish something.

Put your hand back on the steering wheel.

It doesn’t need to produce a spectacular ending.

It just needs to move the story somewhere better.

Because I’ve learned something from writing both fiction and my own life.

Not knowing what happens next doesn’t mean nothing happens next.

Sometimes you’re simply standing in the cave...

Back against the wall...

Unable to see the exit yet.

Keep writing.

P.S. I still don't know exactly where this chapter of my own story is going. For once, I think I'm okay with that. I'm more interested in making sure I don't close the book too early.