It’s taken me all my life to finally acknowledge what I could have done decades ago.
In July this year, I will be 62. For my entire adult life, I’ve belittled my achievements, mostly thinking them unworthy. It may be a British thing, as many of us are self-deprecating but I genuinely never gave much thought to whether I was actually any good at anything.
As I got older, that self-doubt persisted. I put much of it down to the awe that held my late father in. Now, this post was not intended as a “Steve on the psychiatrist’s couch” moment but there are times when a little self-reflection might not be a bad thing. If it also means someone reads it, takes note and, more importantly, takes action, then perhaps it will be a good thing I write.
Dad was a precision toolmaker by profession. He was also a retained firefighter and a highly gifted artist. He was also a very stern parent. I’m not sure that I was frightened of him but I knew not to disrespect him. My sisters and I grew up in a stable and happy family environment, so there really wasn’t that much of an issue.
I was, however, quite insular and not confident, a trait that I carry to this day, albeit not as much as I did as a kid. I still hate confrontation (although my wife may disagree with that, as she can often be the target of my frustrations. Sorry, C). Even telling my now adult children the occasional home truth brings me out in a sweat. Anyway…
I took up engineering as a profession, following in Dad’s footsteps. while he went down the craftsman route, I went all technical and became a production engineer, which was a desk-based job. I have always been fascinated with engineering and still am but never believed myself to be particularly good at it. Still, I’ve managed to get away with an average ability for over 40 years now.
It was only later in life that some of that insecurity and lack of self-belief began to ebb. There were some things I was pretty good at. While I would never put myself in the same league as Dad for art, I was pretty handy with pencil and ink (in his later years, Dad went from pencil to watercolours, a medium that brought out an entirely new level of skill and success).
I used to do a lot of photography in my late teens and early twenties. That was back in the days of 35mm film and most of my work was in black and white. Not only did I find a useful and enjoyable hobby that I was good at, I also taught myself how to develop film and print my own photos. Now, that was REALLY satisfying.
I was unlikely to make a living with photography though. I was also reluctant to take it up professionally, in case it took the enjoyment away. Later on, of course, cellular film gave way to digital and the world and his wife became amateur snappers with the advent of phone cameras.
One thing I was (and still am) good at is writing. Sadly, it was only once I’d reached my 50s that I finally acknowledged this. It started when I wrote a review of a local concert. I saw Gary Numan in Bexhill and, while everyone was watching, I was also writing, initially making a note of the setlist but also observing Gary’s performance and the audience reactions. I got a few odd glances but submitted my review to the local newspaper. The entertainments editor wrote back to say it was a really good piece that the paper wanted to include. I had my first published work.
I love bike racing and went to my first MotoGP event in San Marino, not a bad place to start. The atmosphere was amazing and again, I took a notepad with me and wrote things down, as they happened. I was surrounded by race-mad Italians who, like the Gary Numan audience a few years earlier, didn’t understand what this bloke was doing, writing when there was all this amazing racing going on. Undeterred, I made lots of notes, transcribing it to another article. I submitted it to a national bike racing magazine and, the next day, got a reply. The editor told me that she felt as though she was at the event herself. She asked if I had any photos to accompany the article, as she wanted it for the next issue. I had my next published article. While the concert review got me a short, single column in the local paper, this got me two full pages in the magazine. I was extremely pleased with myself.
A couple of years later, I contacted a friend who was racing in a British Superbike support class. I asked if I would be permitted to follow him for the last weekend of the season to show fans what life in the paddock is like and that it’s not all glamour. He was up for it and, having got permission from his team manager, I spent four days, from Thursday afternoon until Sunday evening, sticking with the team and writing furiously.
That exercise became another two-page article in the same bike racing magazine. The photos were provided by the team’s official photographer but the words were all mine. Another success that I was actually proud of.
As for that bike and bike racing obsession, it was not until I was 56 that I was finally persuaded to have a go at racing myself. I’d been goaded into the idea for years by friends who were club racers but never thought I’d be brave enough to actually go through with it. I did have a go, though and survived to tell the tale come the end of the season.
I was a prolific Facebook poster when I started racing and had enough material for a huge post following my first weekend. So much so that I decided, if I was going to continue racing, I would not put out any more Facebook posts. I would, however, keep a racing diary for my own use but limited the Facebook posts to brief results information.
So it was that by the end of the 2019 racing season, I looked at what I had written. I contacted the bike racing magazine again and what became my prologue and first chapter ended up in the magazine. This time, it was a full four-page spread, the most work I had ever seen published.
Spurred on by the very positive feedback, I tidied the full manuscript up and added a prologue, epilogue and appendices. This gave me around 85,000 words and just shy of 300 pages worth of material. Word had got around my club racing paddock that I was writing something and people were asking if there would be a book. I felt there was enough interest to self-publish and so, in April 2020, “Sylvie & Me” was unleashed on an unsuspecting world.
I never expected it to be particularly successful but as it turned out, I’ve managed to sell over 600 copies so far. Don’t get me wrong, it was never going to be a pension plan (not with the royalties Amazon pays), I am actually very pleased that so many copies have been sold. As an aside, I have shared half of the meagre royalties that the book has earned with my local air ambulance charity.
Where is this all leading? Well, I always knew that I could write well, something I learnt in my early days as an engineer. Then, I would have discussions with colleagues who bemoaned the lack of recognition for engineers in the UK. Conversely, many of them were seemingly incapable of making lucid reports. Often, I would read something one of my team was going to present and my eyes would bleed on seeing the terrible structure, spelling and grammar. When challenged, they would say, “It doesn’t matter. So long as people know what I’m trying to say, that’s the important thing.” I despair, sometimes.
So it was that I found myself in the role of reluctant proofreader for my department. I should have realised back then that perhaps I was destined for another role but I stayed with engineering because that’s all I knew. I was comfortable in my role and knew the only way I could have jumped career paths would have involved a 3-year break for me to go to university. By then, I was married with a young famly, so that was never going to happen.
So I continued, bluffing my way through various engineering jobs. Even now, I feel that’s the case. It’s not “imposter syndrome”. I really don’t consider myself to be a good engineer. Sure, I know stuff and have experience but I do struggle still, even after 45 years.
On the other hand, I am very comfortable writing. I’ve left it too late to embark on a writing career, although I know many authors didn’t become successful until much later in life. I’m currently working on three works of fiction; a thriller, a ghost story and an erotic novel. My writing ambitions are still not being looked at as a pension plan but, on those days that I am really in the mood, I can sit at the keyboard for a whole day of writing.
So to the point of this post. It’s all too easy to think, “I wish I could do this” or “I’ll never be successful at that.” “Success” is relative. Only you can determine what constitutes success. It’s true that writing, or whatever you dream of doing, may not make you financially independent but sometimes there really is more to life than money in the bank.
Your dream role may not even earn you a living but if you’re not motivated purely with money, doing what you love can only be good for your soul. Of course, there’s the adage where people say, “I can’t believe I get paid to do what I love.” Not laa of us are so fortunate yet many people still derive satisfaction and pleasure via an activity that genuinely fills their spirit.
So many of us look back with regret, wishing we had taken that turning to a different life. While life is a one-way street, the decisions we make on that path need not only be one way. We are always capable of starting again. So, if you want to be a writer, a singer, a carer, whatever, don’t just think, “I could never do that.” You never know – maybe you can.
Did I Really Say That? 