Reinvention

Stepping off the FOMO train

I’ve written my last dive watch review. After ten years of taking every manner of subaquatic timepiece deep, it’s time to move on, to pass the baton. I’ve never been comfortable with being pigeon-holed— “a diver,” “a watch journalist,” “a podcaster.” This is despite my oft-repeated advice to up-and-coming writers to find a niche and lean into it. But it’s time to let go—to carve out a new chapter of my career, draw from my rewarding experiences, and see what’s next. That doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.

I first became aware of the term, “FOMO,” a few years ago, via its well known associated hashtag. If you don’t know (and if you don’t, I applaud you), FOMO stands for “Fear Of Missing Out,” and typically refers to plain old jealousy over someone else’s experiences, often exacerbated by the alternate, idealized reality played out on social media. You see your friends’ selfies taken while frolicking on a tropical island while you suffer through a dark week in February: that’s FOMO. Worse yet, it was a trip you were invited on, but had to miss due to a work deadline.

FOMO manifested itself particularly acutely in the world of watch media, especially in the mid-2000-teens. The small pool of writers who cover watches for various publications would vie for attention from the brands that host lavish press trips to exotic locales—races in Monaco, glacier hopping in Iceland, wineries in Napa. Since not everyone gets invited, the flurry of Instagram photos from these bacchanalian sojourns generate their own microclimate of FOMO responses, both acknowledged and silently festering, among those left behind. And it’s not been limited to press junkets. Professional jealousies abound in the watch journalism space. Who got the prize assignment, which blog got the exclusive story, and so on. I’m sure this is not exclusive to the watch space, but it’s what I’ve known.

I’ll admit, I’ve not been immune to FOMO, especially in my heady yet insecure early days of freelancing. I can remember being miffed about not getting invited on a press trip for which I felt was the best candidate. When I’d see another writer diving with watches, it would spur me to get a new dive trip on the calendar, pronto, and procure a quiver of watches to take along for reviewing. Call it motivation, spirited competition, or simply FOMO, it was not healthy. Every vacation became a photo shoot, a “content opportunity,” and every one had to outdo the last, just to maintain my spot at the top of the dive watch zigguraut, to paraphrase Tom Wolfe.

A few years ago, I decided I needed a change. I got much more selective in the press trips and assignments I would accept. I wanted to create my own stories instead of being told which stories to tell by a watch brand or obliged to write one at all. Instead I’d charter a dive boat in, say, the Great Lakes or the Florida Keys, persuade a publication to underwrite the cost, and then procure a watch to review so I could tell my story. These often turned into travel articles disguised as watch reviews, but they were largely well received. And I worked with Gishani and my friend Chris, both superb underwater photographers, to continually improve our techniques and shots, themes, stories, and venues. But eventually, I started to feel like there was only so much I could say about a watch in the context of a diving story. I felt like I was starting to repeat myself. And I wanted to enjoy watches, and diving, again. 

There was a period when I was the only person doing those sorts of diving stories—taking a watch underwater, getting good photos, describing its use in situ. Now there are a handful of others who, if not strictly writing for publications, are putting up amazing dive watch content on social media. And I’ll admit to an occasional FOMO reflex. Maybe we should grease up the camera housing gaskets and book a trip to Truk Lagoon with a roll of dive watches! But then I  think of those nature documentaries where the old lion has to relinquish his position as leader of the pride to a younger, stronger cat. I’m 51. I don’t want to work so hard on my dive trips. Leave that to the other guys now. But the nature of this business is, once you step off the train, it keeps moving down the tracks. You’re forgotten. New names take over. The invitations to events stop coming. You lose your hard won relevance. To walk away, to reinvent yourself, takes courage and confidence.

When I started out after college, with a freshly minted English Literature degree, I got a job as a technical writer, creating manuals for packaging machinery. That morphed into work for a translation agency as a project manager and in marketing. Then I joined a cardiac pacemaker company, writing regulatory dossiers for product approvals in Japan. By that time, I’d started freelancing on the side and eventually jumped into it with both feet. Reinvention. The colleagues I had in previous jobs can scarcely trace a line from A to B if they hear what I’m doing now. This meandering career path may seem disjointed, but my work has always involved writing, and language. Now I feel like I’m in a new place to which I’m still growing accustomed. Podcasting uses different muscles than writing and scratches my old itch to be a late night jazz radio host. Writing this Substack newsletter keeps my writing chops honed and lets me expound on a variety of topics. And then there’s the big change: writing a novel.

I still have a hard time calling myself an author or — gasp! — a novelist. It sounds too grand. The term fits like Dad’s sportcoat did when I was 10 years old. But I’m getting more comfortable with it. And I’ll tell you the truth, if this is what my next decade looks like—writing thrillers, podcasting, and some form of regular articles for a loyal audience—I’ll be very happy. Of course, if it all starts feeling stagnant, pigeon-holed, or if I’m simply not good at it, it will be time to reinvent again, find something new to do. Or go back to something I’ve done. OK, so maybe I haven’t written my last dive watch review.