I grew up in Taranaki, New Zealand, which, if you don’t know it, is a place where the cows outnumber the people and the national religion is rugby. I was hopeless at both. I couldn’t catch a ball, none of my friends were cows, and I was the only kid in school who thought the copyright page of a book was a fun read.
Early on in my primary school education, the New Zealand government sent people down from Auckland to test my IQ, because the teachers didn’t know what to do with the kid who had completed all of the most difficult homework they had. They told me I was sitting at an IQ of 156, which sounds great until you realise it means you’re now officially “the weird kid.”
So while the other children were reading about puppies and learning how to tackle, I was reading about lasers and holograms. Rugby? I still don’t know the difference between a “Lock” and a “Number 8”. I lived through the School Library Service. When the school rented new books, I got more than all 60 other kids combined.
Different was the default setting. Different and alone. Pretending to be Doctor Who in pine forests at the weekends.
Then one day in the mid 80s, my best friend introduced me to Dire Straits.
The album that blew my mind
Mark Knopfler became the first person I ever wanted to be. I learned guitar by watching his hands on grainy VHS recordings of TV concerts. I audiotaped every broadcast, slowed them down, tried to work out the notes in the solo, rewound, replayed, obsessed.
I still remember seeing Dire Straits live in Wellington in 1986. I was in awe, and in tears, watching those fingers conjure stories out of six strings.
Calling every hotel in Auckland
Fast forward to the early 90s. I’m at university in Auckland, studying astrophysics. Dire Straits announce they’re coming back to New Zealand. And I decide, as only a naive, determined kid from the sticks can, that I must meet Mark Knopfler. I wanted him to sign my guitar. It was a cheap knockoff (a “Tokai”) but it looked like a Stratocaster.
One small problem: they were the biggest band in the world. And this was pre-internet. Pre-Google. There was no way I could call them or send them a letter. Where would I even send it?
I had one tool: a telephone.
So I rang every hotel in Auckland. Literally. And asked: “Hi, are Dire Straits staying there?”
They all said no. Except one hotel said the magic words:
“I’m sorry sir, we can’t release that information.”
Bingo.
I grabbed my guitar, took the first bus from the North Shore into the city, and sat in that hotel foyer for seven hours. Seven. Hours. With my guitar on my lap, waiting.
And then he walked past. Mark Knopfler. Flanked by a couple of strange men in black jackets and white hair, like clones of each other. I think they were heading out for dinner.
I went up and said hello. We chatted. He signed my guitar.
He told me that because he signed the fretguard, the signature might rub off when I played. I thought I would be clever and seal it in, so I sprayed it with some sort of sealant which made it smear. Never mind. The guitar is still in storage. I kept the marker pen he used to sign it too.
I had done something impossible. Not because I had connections, or luck, or access. But because I found a way.
The same trick worked again (this time with Lord of the Rings)
Years later, when The Lord of the Rings films were being made, I desperately wanted to work on them. Everyone in New Zealand at the time seemed to have a job or a role, including people I went to film school with. But by the time Return of the King came around, it seemed I had left it too late. There were no jobs going at Weta Digital.
I didn’t give up. I sent the HR lady flowers and chocolate. Repeatedly. Probably not something you could get away with today, come to think of it.
Finally the poor woman phoned me and said, “Okay, fine, just bring in your CV.”
I immediately jumped in my car and drove five hours that same day to hand-deliver it.
Halfway back, my phone rang. They had created a job for me. Could I start Monday?
Yes. Yes, I could. I even went down on Sunday to work for free and learn the ropes.
That’s how I ended up working on Return of the King. The third film in the biggest cinematic trilogy of all time. Because I refused to accept “no jobs available” as an actual barrier.
What I learned from both of these moments
Meeting Mark Knopfler didn’t change my life because a famous musician signed my guitar. It changed my life because I realised the wall between impossible and possible is thinner than I thought. It’s usually just a mindset away.
Most people don’t fail because they can’t do something. They fail because they never start. Fear says “you don’t know how” or “you won’t be able to do it.” My favourite acronym for fear is False Expectations Appearing Real.
Every major change in my life, from weight loss (220kg down to 103kg), to my film career, learning languages, becoming a digital nomad, building apps, moving countries, and getting French citizenship, started the same way. Not with confidence or ego or any belief I was better than anyone else. But with a curiosity I had to satisfy, and with the refusal to accept any barrier as final.
You don’t need courage to begin something impossible. You need movement. One small step. Then another. Then a creative workaround when you get stuck. That’s it. That’s the whole trick.
Try this yourself
Define the thing you want. Not vaguely. Specifically. “Meet Mark Knopfler.” “Get a job at Weta.” “Lose 100kg.” “Switch careers.” “Build a robot friend.”
Break it into problems. Then break those problems into smaller problems. If the whole mountain is too big, make it a staircase.
Identify the real obstacle. It’s usually not the external barrier. It’s the belief that you can’t get around it.
Ask the only question that matters: “How else could I do this?” If A won’t work, try B. If B sucks, try C. If C fails, invent D.
Emotionally detach from embarrassment. Most people aren’t blocked by fear of failure. They’re blocked by fear of looking silly while learning.
Build momentum by accumulating small wins. Dopamine is the fuel. Success is cumulative, not cinematic.
Don’t wait for permission. No one is coming to open the door for you. Kick it. Or climb in through the window. Or say you’re delivering chocolate to the receptionist and slide your CV in under it.
P.S. Now that I live in the UK, I want to meet Mark Knopfler again. A bookend at the other end of my life. I don’t have to call a bunch of hotels this time. I think I know where I can wait (in a completely non-stalkery way) and it’s a pub so I can have a pint while I wait.
Get in touch if you have your own “impossible thing” and need a push.