Walt and I flew to the highlands of Scotland for a long weekend.  (Not a big deal if you live in Ireland, by the way, so don’t be too impressed.) Our goal was to climb Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles.

Being experienced mountain climbers, we know how to pack for the occasion, even when we’re not familiar with the venue. We brought the crampons in case we ran into ice, and the ice axes, in case we needed to self-arrest.  We brought the rain pants and the raincoat because there’s just nothing worse than wet down. We brought the extra pair of gloves, the hand warmers, the spare socks, the blister kit, and so on.

We do this out of habit. Once you’ve experienced the desperate need for one of these items out in the wilds, you so don’t forget. Even though, most of the time, carting this stuff around is overkill.

We were on our way back down the mountain when we noticed a menacing black cloud. We set our packs down, grabbed our rain gear, and slipped it on. 

Within a minute or two, the winds picked up and the rain began in earnest.  We turned down the next switchback and a 50 mile-per-hour gust slammed us in the chest.  Shortly thereafter, the rain took on the quality of thumbtacks mixed with flying nails.

We steeled ourselves for a couple of hours of low-level suffering.

We passed a number of climbing parties on their way up. Why they hadn’t turned tail in those conditions I found curious. The weather wasn’t going to get any better; it was only going to get worse.

I studied each person’s footwear, mostly because to look anywhere else hurt like hell.  

I can always spot experienced climbers by their specialized footwear—hard rubber soled boots that slip nicely into crampons. The newbies, the weekend warriors, the young bucks and buckettes, they all wear sneakers; UGGs; flip-flops; or Sorrel, fur-trimmed boots.  Stuff you’d wear to the mall, not out on a trail where people get hurt.

Sure, I shake my head, worry a little, but I don’t judge the newbies anymore. Even these fools traipsing along soaking wet. Because it takes experience—much of it unpleasant—to learn the necessary ropes. 

After a thrashing like that, some of those newbies will never set foot on a mountain trail again. Others will likely hire a guide next time, or seek out the wise counsel of an expert before booting up.

Why am I telling you this story?

If you registered for my Free Masterclass—The Perfect Book Outline:  How to impact lives, rule your niche, and make your bank account explode—and you couldn’t figure out why you weren’t getting any sort of confirmation…

If you kept getting invitations to register again, and again, and again, even though you registered, like, five times….

You just witnessed an automation newbie in action. Soaking wet, standing around in flip-flops, with hypothermic blue lips.

Good lord almighty, there are so many moving parts when putting together this kind of email campaign, and so many things that are supposed to fit together so this can turn on and that can turn off and….. It looks so much easier from the outside.

I’ve learned a few hard lessons I won’t soon forget. 

And I rang up an expert to minimize the learning curve, because I’m afraid of what else I don’t know. I so don’t want to bug people or look like a fool.

Anyway, that’s what the whole Masterclass is about in the first place: showing you the tricks of the book writing trade to save you unnecessary discomfort and pain.  

A little advice from an expert?  Shove some rain gear in your daypack and wear rubber-soled shoes… oh, wait. Listen in to the Masterclass and I’ll give you loads!