The older I get, the more I come to terms with my Bukowski nature—something I’ve always had, but first noticed by my mum when I was still a child: a strong desire for solitude. This is odd and antisocial in a world where normal people (and animals) flock together for emotional and physical safety, where being excluded or banished from the group is as good as death. It’s hard to grasp. When I hear stories of people put into prison isolation for weeks, months, or years—as punishment—I often imagine how nice it would be. I suppose when you’ve made some of your stock-in-trade from soloing, that kind of odd nature is a real advantage, like being a psychopath makes one a great contract killer or city trader. It’s also handy if you want to write or drive trains.

The older I get, the more I long for isolation—to be left alone, maybe in some storm-captured lighthouse, or in a rocket on a solo three-year trip to Mars. Still, unfortunately, another big part of my nature is self-sabotage and destruction. So being married, with two small kids, means the only isolation I can carve out is either inside my head (failing to be present during the day-to-day parade of human interaction—my presence as real as a papier-mâché head in Alcatraz) or hiding.

In the old days, if you could prove yourself a writer of books that sold, you could gain the privilege of owning a library (a room with some books in it) that you could lock yourself away in. Or perhaps, like Evelyn Waugh, even have your breakfast and lunch in the library, and only see the kids at supper (which I call tea). Luckily for my kids, I’m not Evelyn Waugh—who was probably doing his kids a favour by locking himself away—plus I don’t have a library, just some bookshelves. And so my only escape—like most men so afflicted—is the toilet (which also contains a lot of books, so it’s really more of a library than a toilet).

Over New Year, I was visiting a friend for dinner, which, like many social occasions, was full of small chit-chat about the weather, house prices, and sport. I found it necessary to hide away in the toilet for a while. Now, this house belonged to a single man, so I expected to be able to peruse his toilet library and get a measure of the man. Would it be filled with books on gardening, or DIY, or tanks and fighter planes of WW2, or Viz comics and 2000AD, or political diaries, quantum and string theory for dummies, or perhaps the works of war photographers and Magnum? No. There was only one book: a dog-eared paperback titled Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill.

The cover stated that it was one of the best-selling books of all time (and it turned out it was). Although it looked like one of hundreds of those American airport-bookshop-style self-help books, it was actually one of the first, published in 1937.

Now, I’m not a self-help-book kind of person—even though you could say I’ve written self-help books: books designed to make you more successful at not dying. Whenever I’ve dipped into one, my first thought is that rather than making it about money, or doing one-arm pull-ups on matchstick edges, or finding a hot woman, I’d reframe the end goal from X to just “success.” But first, work out what success actually is—as generally, money is a tar pit, one-arm pull-ups were invented by physical therapists and hang-board manufacturers, and hot women require more maintenance than an F-35, but are far more deadly.

The only self-help book I’ve ever read and would recommend to anyone is The 48 Laws of Power (1998) by Robert Greene—simply because it’s not really a self-help book, just a series of stories from history that help build a model of human nature. It’s also the most popular book in the US prison system. For me, the only self-help books worth reading are biographies and histories—which is why I like the 48 Laws.

If you were to read the 48 Laws, you could identify the kind of person who might buy Think and Grow Rich (or similar books) as someone who’s being exploited in some way—their greed, their fear, their need to be desired, or to have power. But just as the only people who drink Diet Coke are generally fat, so too the only people who read books like this tend to be poor in success. (I’ve often found that the people who make every human interaction about money generally chase all money away, while people who don’t are happy either way—money being something you just need enough of not to think about.)

With nothing else to read, I picked it up, opened it randomly, read a few lines, and thought to myself how a book like this could easily be condensed to a tenth of the size—maybe even to a page. But then, who’d buy that? Who cares about the brevity of the content? Just feel the weight.

Then, being a writer of books myself (which are also not brief), I flicked to the back, to the appendix—where you often place the great stuff that just won’t fit—and true enough, there it was, just before the index (a book’s end titles): a section called “Fifty-Seven Famous Alibis” by Old Man IF. Bingo!

This is the list:

• IF I didn’t have a wife and family . . .

• IF I had enough “pull” . . .

• IF I had money . . .

• IF I had a good education . . .

• IF I could get a job . . .

• IF I had good health . . .

• IF I only had time . . .

• IF times were better . . .

• IF other people understood me . . .

• IF conditions around me were only different . . .

• IF I could live my life over again . . .

• IF I did not fear what “THEY” would say . . .

• IF I had been given a chance . . .

• IF I now had a chance . . .

• IF other people didn’t “have it in for me” . . .

• IF nothing happens to stop me . . .

• IF I were only younger . . .

• IF I could only do what I want . . .

• IF I had been born rich . . .

• IF I could meet “the right people” . . .

• IF I had the talent that some people have . . .

• IF I dared assert myself . . .

• IF I only had embraced past opportunities . . .

• IF people didn’t get on my nerves . . .

• IF I didn’t have to keep house and look after the children . . .

• IF I could save some money . . .

• IF the boss only appreciated me . . .

• IF I only had somebody to help me . . .

• IF my family understood me . . .

• IF I lived in a big city . . .

• IF I could just get started . . .

• IF I were only free . . .

• IF I had the personality of some people . . .

• IF I were not so fat . . .

• IF my talents were known . . .

• IF I could just get a “break” . . .

• IF I could only get out of debt . . .

• IF I hadn’t failed . . .

• IF I only knew how . . .

• IF everybody didn’t oppose me . . .

• IF I didn’t have so many worries . . .

• IF I could marry the right person . . .

• IF people weren’t so dumb . . .

• IF my family were not so extravagant . . .

• IF I were sure of myself . . .

• IF luck were not against me . . .

• IF I had not been born under the wrong star . . .

• IF it were not true that “what is to be will be” . . .

• IF I did not have to work so hard . . .

• IF I hadn’t lost my money . . .

• IF I lived in a different neighbourhood . . .

• IF I didn’t have a “past” . . .

• IF I only had a business of my own . . .

• IF other people would only listen to me . . .

• IF—and this is the greatest of them all—I had the courage to see myself as I really am, I would find out what is wrong with me, and correct it, then I might have a chance to profit by my mistakes and learn something from the experience of others, for I know that there is something WRONG with me, or I would now be where I WOULD HAVE BEEN IF I had spent more time analyzing my weaknesses, and less time building alibis to cover them.

Wozers, I thought—this might be nearly 100 years old, but this is on the money. I immediately thought about all the climbing IFs that people suffer:

• IF only I were taller…

• IF only I were shorter…

• IF only I were stronger…

• IF only I had more stamina…

• IF only I had a better ape index…

• IF only I could do 1-3-5-7-9…

• IF only I weren’t injured…

• IF only I could train more…

• IF only I were more motivated…

• IF only I were less obsessed…

• IF only I had better luck…

• IF only I didn’t get so scared…

• IF only I could switch off my brain…

• IF only I could be more risk aware…

• IF only I were thinner…

• IF only I didn’t get the hot aches…

• IF only I had more money…

• IF only I worked less…

• IF only I had a job…

• IF only I had a car…

• IF only I had a black Totem…

• IF only I had more time…

• IF only I lived in a different country…

• IF only I had a climbing partner…

• IF only I had a better climbing partner…

• IF only I weren’t married…

• IF only I wasn’t so lonely…

• IF only I had no kids…

• IF only I had kids…

• IF only I were hungrier…

• IF only my girlfriend/boyfriend climbed…

• IF only my girlfriend/boyfriend didn’t climb…

• IF only I could care less…

• IF only I lived near the mountains…

• IF only I were as strong as I was…

• IF only I didn’t mind falling…

• IF only my boots were half a size bigger…

• IF only my boots were half a size smaller…

• IF only I were as good as him/her…

• IF only I’d had the same advantages…

• IF only I could put in more effort…

• IF only I could make it more fun…

• IF only I could focus more on success…

• IF only I had sponsors…

• IF only it weren’t always raining…

• IF only I weren’t working class…

• IF only I had a bouldering wall…

• IF only I could feel about climbing like I once did…

• IF only I’d started sooner…

• IF only I’d started when I was older…

• IF only I hadn’t had my accident…

• IF only you could stop making excuses, and stop blaming other people, other things, the universe, and come to terms with yourself, and things forever beyond your control, and just plan, train, focus, and execute one (realistic) objective at a time—and not see each one in isolation, but as linear improvement, like stepping stones, to greater (unrealistic) objectives—then perhaps you may find no need for weak conjunction thinking, just practical action.

Back to the toilet.

I closed the book, took a note of its title—thinking there might be something to write about—then returned to the dinner party, explaining away my absence to my host with: “Oh, I was reading that how-to-make-money book in your toilet.”, thinking it odd he’d have such a book, to which he replied, “I’ve never read it. My mum gave it to me, so I just stuck it in the toilet.”