The Notebook That Never Was
What a former dictator's business advice taught me about self-sabotage
Part 1: The Notebook
I did it again.
I opened a brand-new notebook—the kind that looks like it holds the secrets of the universe and the cure for cancer. Heavy paper, fancy spine that wouldn’t get in the way of my left hand, and a cover that whispered, “This time, you’ll finally get your life together.”
This one was going to be perfect.
My idea? A fiction story about a Zoo of Horrors. By day, an ordinary zoo. By night, its creatures escaped and haunted nearby villages. The hero was an investigative journalist named Scotty—basically me, but braver.
I wrote the title across the first page in all caps:
“THIS TIME IT’S GOING TO BE DIFFERENT. THIS IS THE ONE. THIS IS THE MEGA IDEA THAT WILL MAKE BEAU FREE.”
I spent the next two weeks planning the perfect system. Then I called my friend Manny Noriega—my old philosophy coaching client who’d somehow made good after a “complicated” past in Panama—because excitement needs an audience.
“Hey Manny.”
“Wassup?”
“I got the perfect idea this time. It’s gonna be great—maybe even make me some money.”
“You shouldn’t do things just for money,” Manny said, his voice suddenly heavy. “Remember what I used to do for money? Great at first. Then it all just kinda fell apart.”
“Yeah, but you’re doing great now. All legit.”
“That’s because I finally went clean and started a digital-marketing agency. Did everything by the book. No more guessing for this guy. I got mouths to feed and trucks to buy.”
“Don’t you already have a nice truck?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said quickly. “I’ve said too much. Anyway, read this book—XY-Ziggy. Changed my whole approach to business. Changed my life.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Some business guru. Just trust me on this one.”
He hung up before I could ask more questions.
So I ordered XY-Ziggy and sat down to write my first world-saving chapter. Scotty sat under a tree in the zoo, writing in his journal, then fell asleep. When he woke, it was nighttime—
And then I got bored by my own writing.
I opened the XY-Ziggy book instead. By page two, I was nodding off. I did some push-ups to wake myself up, then decided to read an online summary to save time. I promised myself that if I had questions, I’d go deeper into the actual book.
XY-Ziggy Book Summary:
Fail fast and fail lots. Taking too long to fail is a mistake.
Think outside the box, because if you’re thinking inside the box, you did stuff wrong and soon you’ll suffocate.
The customer is always right—when they pay on time. When they don’t, send Hector to their house to break a finger. If they do it again, shoot them.
Follow your passion—except Hector’s. He likes to hurt people. Bad for business.
If you build it, they will come. When they don’t, send Hector to make them come.
Apply the 10x rule. Make your workers give ten times what the average is and pay them less than that. When they complain, see Hector.
I stopped reading.
“What the hell am I reading?” I said aloud. “And who is Hector?”
I knew Manny had a guy named Hector who worked for him—everyone who knew Manny knew about Hector. Even Manny seemed nervous when he talked about him. But this was supposed to be a business book.
I flipped to the author bio: Ynnam Greinoa.
“Huh. Ynnam Greinoa?” I said to no one. “Something’s not right about that name.”
Unable to write or learn anything new, I logged back into World of Warcraft—the game I swore I’d quit because it was eating my life. At least there, I could feel like I was accomplishing something.
“Killing boars,” I muttered, quoting that old South Park episode where the boys waste away in front of their screens, grinding XP to defeat one unstoppable player. Except this time, I wouldn’t let distraction derail my dream.
What was my dream again?
Oh right: save the world and write fiction at the same time. Golden idea. Focused. Tangible.
I set a timer for two hours. When it went off, I’d figure out what I was actually going to write about.
The alarm went off mid-boss raid. I smashed the stop button like it was one of the Three Stooges making whooping sounds at me. I killed that internet dragon, got my purple pixel loot, and glanced at the clock.
2 a.m.
The world-saving novel could wait. I was too tired to think.
Somewhere between the raid, ordering pizza, and shoveling food into my mouth while playing, my notebook had fallen to the floor next to a pile of laundry I never folded.
5 a.m. Why do I always wake up early when I go to bed so late?
By 6 a.m., after failing to go back to sleep, it hit me:
“Ynnam Greinoa” is an anagram for Manny Noriega.
That bastard tricked me into buying his own book.
And suddenly the Hector references made a lot more sense. Manny said he’d gone legit, built everything by the book. But apparently, the book he’d written still had some... editorial issues from his old life.
Three days later, the notebook was still on the floor next to the laundry.
And I was back on the couch, convincing myself that “rest is productive.”
Part 2: The Lesson
The story above is a metaphor—mostly. Manny’s real, and yes, that’s his actual past. But the habits? Those are all mine.
The cycle goes like this: big goal → overplan → daydream → tell people about it (so I feel successful without doing the work) → burnout → distraction → guilt → repeat.
What’s different today?
Honesty. Brutal, compassionate honesty.
As the Stoics said: Amor fati. Love your fate. Accept it fully. Everything that’s happened—every false start, every wasted night, every notebook buried under laundry—happened exactly as it should have.
The faster you accept all that you are, all that’s happened, and all your circumstances, the faster you heal.
For years, I thought my failures were signs that something was wrong with me—that I lacked discipline, willpower, grit. The usual self-help suspects.
But lately, I’ve realized something kinder (and funnier): I fail because I’m human. And because I care too much about winning the game before I’ve learned the rules.
We don’t sabotage ourselves out of laziness. We do it because fantasy feels safer than effort.
The fantasy version of me writes a bestseller in one sitting, wakes up at 5 a.m., and eats kale chips without resentment. The real me hits snooze and negotiates with the alarm clock like it owes me money.
And that’s okay.
Because every “failure” is just feedback dressed in embarrassment. The trick isn’t to avoid failing—it’s to fail faster, laugh sooner, and keep going.
Marcus Aurelius probably would’ve rolled his eyes at my notebook addiction, but even he wrote daily reminders to himself about the same things: we forget what matters, so we start again.
So here’s my new rule: start again, but make it funny.
The moment you can laugh at your failures, you take away their power. You turn them from villains into teachers.
My notebook’s still on the floor.
But this time, I’ll write in it again tomorrow—just like I did today.
Finally.