In my mid-twenties I started learning German. Not sure why. I just fancied it – perhaps feeling that, having earned a university degree (late), I could plug another ‘life gap’ and learn a language. I went to the Goethe-Institut in Manchester and borrowed some tapes. And I made good progress. Soon I felt well on my way – building up vocabulary, understanding verb construction and dealing with grammar.

But then I just stopped. One day I missed a lesson and that was that. Of course, 20 years have passed, so if I'd kept it up I'd be fluent by now.

In my early thirties I took up sailing. I was living in New York at the time and had some great lessons in the harbour using Liberty and Ellis Island as tacking points. And I was good at it – my instructor thought me a ‘natural’. But, again, I just stopped – meaning my strong nautical progress came to nothing.

Then there was golf – that was in my early twenties. French – early thirties. Five-a-side football, squash, tennis – all sometime between university and now. And what about all those business plans? Town-based restaurant guides, for instance. We produced three but not a fourth despite their popularity. A highly-focused financial magazine: didn't happen, despite two near-identical magazines since succeeding. A lifestyle magazine for the City of London: yep, there's one of those now. But it's nothing to do with me.

And the books I've half written. There was The War Hero, a Second World War tale of a discharged soldier lying about the circumstances of his injury; an unnamed spy novel based in a fictional country; a romantic drama called Sanctuary involving a Manchester student and a young Asian girl running away from a forced marriage; and even a lad-lit comedy called Mind The Gap on finding love in London. In each case I made strong progress – writing reams and reams. And then I simply stopped.

Yet such frivolities seem insignificant compared to my wayward career path. Enough to raise eyebrows in any HR department, my serious ‘careers’ have included training as a building surveyor (four years, plus a year at poly), work as an advertising sales executive (one year), a newspaper production editor/journo (one year), a magazine sub-editor (six months), a financial journalist (five years), an investment banker (five years), a dotcom entrepreneur (two years) and a financial PR company director (ten years). In fact, anyone trying to make sense of my CV would assume they'd picked up a page or two from the pile below.

Process isn't a talent – it's taught

Just about everything in my life has followed the same wayward trajectory: bright ideas, followed by enthusiasm, followed by an active frenzy that fizzles out once the going gets tough or I become bored or something else attracts my attention. Despite looking and acting well-organized – and possessing plenty of early determination – my mental chaos ultimately wins: halting progress and destroying both my productivity and my credibility. The only alternative to this pattern has been when fear has overwhelmed even this pathetic process – stopping me from even starting.

That said, I'm far from alone. Millions of people are stymied by their inability to get things done. They cannot get beyond the idea or initial thought – or perhaps the half-page of scribbled lines. Even if they take action they can fall at the first fence, or the minute another – seemingly better – idea takes its place. Many eventually surrender – assuming it takes skills beyond them; or that those that can get things done have innate gifts they'll never acquire.

Of course, they don't. They've simply learnt the art (and science) of process. Indeed, process is a key word. As described within, there are conditions aplenty to explain our inability to deal with process. Yet there's also the fact that process is a skill we need to acquire, like learning to read a book from the beginning to the end (i.e. in that order). That said, millions of people enter adulthood without learning the basics of process. For me, the concept of thinking before acting – and then acting with thought given to sequence (and consequence) – was alien.

The problem wasn't just impulsivity. Sure, I'd often jump in without thought, although I'd just as often not jump at all (perhaps when facing authority or bureaucracy or when feeling fearful or lazy). My problem was being clueless with respect to time and task management, which meant my actions had no direction or purpose, while instructions felt like an imposition: hence my knee-jerk resistance.

As we shall see, such cluelessness starts young and is almost certainly the result of poor conditioning: whether from influencers (such as parents and teachers) who were themselves poorly conditioned (thus merely passing on the malaise), or who we – for whatever reason – ignored or even rejected.

And it's not long before we become resigned to our fate: developing low expectations regarding what's achievable, or assuming that – somehow – strong goal-oriented productivity is for other people. We may even find a condition that suits our symptoms, perhaps excusing us from the fray (see Part One).

Yet there's nothing innate about strong personal productivity. In virtually all circumstances it's a mere facet of learning. It's something we have to be taught, or something we have to teach ourselves if no one bothered (or we didn't listen). Blaming others or our circumstances, or assuming others have privileges and entitlements not available to us, is both disabling and self-fulfilling.

Of course, we're right: other people are (probably) to blame for our situation; and others do have it easier. And we may even have been diagnosed with one of the long list of conditions to explain our productive deficiencies. But using this as an excuse to languish at the bottom – to not even start the journey towards becoming a well-organized, goal-oriented and productive human being – is an appalling and wilful act of self-sabotage.

Someone, somewhere has to tell us this news. And (more importantly) we have to hear it. Otherwise, like millions of unproductive people everywhere, we'll remain stuck in the wrong place – facing the wrong way – although with some cast-iron excuses for our lack of progress.

Someone capable of achieving something

No mentor appeared for me – at least not one I was willing to listen to. Instead, I remained utterly ineffective until my late thirties. Of course, I did make some headway. But it was poor progress compared to what I thought possible, and usually dismissed by me as ‘too little, too late’. Somewhere in there, I reasoned, was a person able to achieve great things. I just needed someone to spot it, give me a chance, and point me in the right direction.

But that moment never came. In fact, even by thinking this, I'd handed over my future to somebody I'd never met and who possibly did not exist – hence my starry-eyed ‘gis-a-job’ look of longing and desperation every time I met somebody that clearly did have a future, and did know where they were going.

How pathetic: inwardly pleading ‘save me’ to total strangers, asking them (even if unstated, the intent was plain) to rescue me by organizing my future. It was the directionless graduate's equivalent of sitting passively outside the train station with a sign saying ‘homeless and hungry’.

Yet the biggest problem with this ‘future-outsourcing’ approach isn't that it doesn't work. It's that it does. Occasionally, we do get rescued – normally by someone looking for recruits to their cause. We end up pursuing their goals for their ends. Indeed, why not? We've failed to forge our own path, so we may as well hand over our fate to someone more capable. That said, we'll quickly blame them when our unrealistic expectations turn out to be, well, unrealistic.

Ever-decreasing circles

On several occasions I've outsourced the direction of my career in this way: pleading for a chance (covertly if not overtly) and ‘as luck would have it’ being recruited by an organized, goal-oriented, skipper looking for a crew. Eventually I'd work this out and become disillusioned and even resentful. And then I'd start the same flirty-eyed process all over again, with a new bunch of productive strangers.

As is the way with these things, this was a process that repeated itself in ever-decreasing circles until – depressed and not a little fearful for the future – the unrelenting reality of my situation came crashing in. Floored, I found the self-help section of the bookshop – a zone that opened up an Aladdin's cave of potential solutions for my malaise. Books, DVDs, courses, even homeopathic remedies: rather typically I jumped in with the zeal of those desperate to be converted.

But, again, I'd outsourced my future – this time to a series of grinning Californians promising me dream-fulfilment via their seemingly irrefutable methodologies. Not for the first time, my wide-eyed enthusiasm became eroded by small slips and minor setbacks. My passion burnt away – replaced by a deep cynicism at the cheesy grins, the hyper-titling (Maximum Achievement, Unlimited Power etc.) and the over-promising.

That said, the pattern of behaviour felt uniquely mine. Hope, enthusiasm, sketched plans, erratic execution, small setbacks, arrested progress, despondent reactions, procrastination, surrender, cynicism, denial, even depression – and then, almost without pause, the next twinkling light on the horizon rekindling the hope.

Lost in a fantasy world

In fact, mine is a simple tale of low self-esteem and childhood alienation: a strained relationship with my father; a school that only noticed my misbehaviour; an older sister that I seemed to continually irritate; and a mother who tried to make up for all these deficits while busy fighting her own battles. Small wonder that formalized pursuits couldn't hold my attention and, instead, I lost myself in a fantasy world that, after a while, consumed my sense of purpose.

I opted out of the real, emotionally painful world at the age of ten – instead occupying a parallel, more comforting universe of my own making. Literally, I became someone else – a made-up person in a made-up country – keen to escape the reality of an upbringing that was both barren and hurtful.

I was brought up in what Americans call exurbia – a once-quaint Essex village expanded to the size of a small town to house the post-war east London diaspora in soulless but comfortable estates. This changed the pace of life along with the accents. Yet neither the rural natives, with their fruity vowels, nor the London incomers, with their sharp expressions, offered me a sense of direction worth emulating. Instead, I left the local comprehensive with one O level (in geography) and pursued a series of careers I didn't want. Or, with those I did want, eventually rebelled against – perhaps after an episode in which I felt exploited or undervalued.

A crucial point here is that unproductive people are rarely lazy – at least not initially. They can be highly motivated and work extremely hard, although they're busy going nowhere. Add stress, anxiety and convictions of exploitation to those patent feelings of frustration and alienation and this is a destructive state of mind. It's also one unlikely to produce a positive response from others.

Most back away: inwardly rolling their eyes or quietly bitching to a confidant. Instead, they focus on their own productive pur­­suits, and view us as no more than a highly-volatile obstacle to navigate.

The painful truth

Certainly this cycle continued for me until I went into business with a successful friend – yet again, hitching myself to someone else's endeavours in the hope that some of his magic would rub off. Inevitably, we fell out. But, rather than back away, my partner attacked – telling me some home truths I'd been waiting to hear all my life.

‘Yes, you're talented’, he said (after prompting). ‘But it's wasted. You'll never cash it in because it's directionless. You only know what you don't want, which means you're so busy fighting everybody – including yourself – you become someone others avoid. There's so much noise going on inside your head – so many battles being fought – that you cannot hear or see anything else.’

‘In the end, people will give up on you’, he said. ‘Or you'll spend your entire life running away from things – meaning you'll have nothing to show for it but a series of lost battles and great excuses.’

Finally, someone worth listening to had said something I needed to hear. I had to change, and change fundamentally, which led me back to those discarded self-help books and even into the hands of a professional psychologist.

Yet to change I needed to understand what had happened. Why was I so directionless – destructively so? Adopting productive behaviours simply because some self-help guru told me to – or because a colleague had finally pierced my emotional armour – felt equally unsustainable: another pursuit that would disappear at the first sign of boredom, or after the first setback, or due to some invented dispute.

If I was to change fundamentally – sustainably – I first had to unravel the chaotic mind that made me so ineffectual. Only then could I adopt the strong habits – as recommended by the gurus – with any sense of understanding, or with any optimism that the road ahead would be more rewarding than the twisting and rutted path that had taken me to this sorry point.