📩 Introducing: Lucky's Letters

A reluctant modern sage tackling timeless everyday problems.

Hi all,

This Friday, I’ll be sending out the first edition of Lucky’s Letters, my new monthly series for paid members.

It’ll be a (mostly) fictional series offering warm, humorous, Stoic-inspired advice for everyday problems through the voice of a reluctant modern sage. Designed to be practical rather than theoretical, it gently weaves Stoicism into relatable stories to support newcomers, dabblers, and seasoned practitioners alike.

Until the end of the month, I’m offering a permanent 20% off annual subscriptions, so now is the time to sign up to get the best value and receive this new monthly series as well as my daily Micro Morning Meditations for the next year and beyond.

Thanks as always for your support,
Allan

For now, though, I’ll hand over to Lucky to introduce himself…

Introducing Lucky

Greetings, dearest of all readers.

My name is Charlie, though people usually call me “Lucky”. Not because I have an unusual knack for collecting good fortune, but because my other name is Lucius. Charlie “Lucky” Lucius. It kind of works, I guess.

I write this, as I write everything, at my rickety kitchen table, as a mug of tea adds another decorative ring to the wooden surface. I used to deploy coasters for such occasions, but I kept losing them. The tea is black tea, brewed at exactly 96 degrees centigrade and steeped for three minutes and ten seconds. A dash—not a drop, and never a dollop—of milk is then added. This process has been refined over many years and is perhaps the one thing in life from which I demand precision.

But listen…

I begin (if you’ll be so kind to disregard the above paragraphs as a beginning) with a salutation that usually guarantees any material thereafter is forwarded to at least twelve departments before being discarded entirely. I hope this letter avoids that fate:

To whom it may concern,

For some time now, I’ve been digging through the depths of my hard-won, easy-won, and accidentally-acquired knowledge (if I have any left) to provide philosophical advice to anyone who asks. This is usually in response to questions submitted to me by concerned and perplexed humans. (I’m yet to receive a written query from an animal, but I live in hope.)

I didn’t exactly choose this role.

The first letter was delivered to me long ago in error by Pat the Postie, my local mail carrier, who to this day still insists on knocking on my door and handing me my mail because the “technology of letterboxes is eroding human connection.” For the sake of his sanity, I hope she never discovers social media.

I could have ignored that first letter (or used it to level my wobbly writing table), but the handwriting was elegant, and the writer had clearly gone to some effort. I also thought I could help. So I answered.

To my surprise, a grateful reply came back. The writer thought I knew things. And now other people seem to think so too. But I’m no wise sage. I am not a master, a guru, a magician, or a superhero.

In fact, I am no more an expert on life and how it should optimally be lived than anyone else. Sometimes I’m a downright idiot who loses his glasses and finds them hours later, perched on his head!

The Secret

The secret you need to know is that there is no such expert on life: we are all students. It’s just that some don’t believe that to be the case. Some don’t think they have anything left to learn!

The difference between those who make progress and those who don’t? I believe it’s the willingness to be students of life, for life. To be comfortable with the feeling of idiocy that comes with constant learning and the embarrasing recovery of spectacles. To be a perennial sponge, always open to soaking up new knowledge wherever it gets spilled, and to never forget to wring oneself out.

Today’s self-appointed self-help authorities will have you believe they have it all figured out. They do that by talking extensively around subjects and diluting useful, applicable advice in a sea of confident bluster. What a waste of everyone’s time!

Ancient philosophers, on the other hand, quickly got to the heart of important matters. They knew what we know: life is short. They wanted to learn how to live and then teach others what they’d learned. They felt no need to pad their lessons out with fluff. It’s for that reason that I draw inspiration from them when I give advice. (Even though I feel myself rambling a bit already and the urgent need to de-fluff.)

My dog, Horace, who five minutes ago was begging for biscuit crumbs, has reminded me, through the sound of his snoring under the table, to start getting to the point.

The great Seneca—the Stoic philosopher, Roman statesman, emperor advisor, philosophical letter/essay/tragedy writer, and so on—did not believe himself an expert. Any advice he gave, he said, was from the perspective of an ill man sharing remedies with patients in the same hospital.

The good news is we’re all “ill”: as humans, we’re all facing the same issues. So when we learn of some nice remedies, there will surely be someone who will benefit from our sharing them. But please don’t practice medicine without a licence. Or at least having played the game Operation.

Of course, Seneca meant this metaphorically. I once had a brush with urgent “unwellness” after eating an under cooked fish supper. That was considerably less inspirational.

Why Philosophy?

I’m sure you’re asking why I think philosophy is a good thing to do in response to life. Why do I rely on it when providing advice? Why is it the thing that can guide us safely on our way?

Well, a cursory glance at the news is enough to leave the glancer curled up in the fetal position, wondering if the apocalypse will arrive before dinner. A scroll through social media is enough to leave the scroller stressed out, feeling inept at the rest of the world’s apparent happiness and superiority.

Here’s the real news: there’s more than one way of thinking about the world! Philosophy offers these different ways of thinking.

Maybe you’ve been shepherded into one way of thinking since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, or you’ve adopted a collection of beliefs without question. I don’t know about you, but my best thinking happens when I start questioning.

I’m not trying to give you a definitive set of steps to follow to reach “enlightenment,” “nirvana,” or even mild gastrointestinal relief. I’m simply offering a gentle encouragement to, if you have time, think. To, if you can spare a second, pause. To, if it’s not too much to ask, consider.

What to Expect

If you read these letters slowly, one at a time, they may provoke you to stop and think. I say allow yourself to be provoked. If something makes you say, “Hmm, I’ve never thought about it that way before,” then I urge you: take advantage of the opportunity to think about it that way at that very moment.

Then think about it in a completely different way if you like.

Consider what it means for you and your life—how you think and act.

And if you conclude I’m talking nonsense, well, that’s useful too. Like I said, I can be really daft sometimes. If I’ve found a remedy that helps me, I’ll pass it on. You can decide whether to swallow it, dilute it, or throw it at the wall.

Philosophy doesn’t supply all the answers to your or my problems, but it does enable us to ask better questions—ones that often lead us to sensible solutions. That’s the part I really believe in.

My favorite moments as a reader are when I’m stopped in my tracks by the instant recognition that a writer has communicated something clearly and uniquely.

It could be a new idea that I hadn’t previously considered, or an old idea expressed in a novel way.

Whichever it is, they’ve told me what I desperately needed to hear: that they and others feel as I do.

For example, in his novel Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut says this:

All of us were stuck to the surface of a ball, incidentally. The planet was ball-shaped. Nobody knew why we didn’t fall off, even though everybody pretended to kind of understand it. The really smart people understood that one of the best ways to get rich was to own a part of the surface people had to stick to.

It’s simple, even absurd. But it captures perfectly the strangeness of human existence. Every time I read it, I pause, smile, and feel grateful.

If these letters can ever give you one of those moments, I’ll be very glad indeed.

One Rule

Before I leave you, let me offer a philosophical morsel you might enjoy chewing on with your mental teeth.

There is only one golden rule, so far as I see it, the one that you must follow always: the rule of reciprocity.

I’ve boiled it down to that for my own selfish purposes. Treat others with the kindness and respect with which you would wish to be treated yourself. Expect nothing in return. The wages of a good deed are to have done it.

For example, when some dunderhead presumes to tell you what’s what, try this:

1. Don’t call them a dunderhead.

2. Examine what they’ve said.

3. Keep what’s useful, throw what’s not at the wall.

4. If you feel it’s appropriate to teach them something, do so.

5. And above all, show them tolerance.

And with that, dearest reader, I leave you for now. The next dispatch you receive from me will be a letter that addresses one of my correspondents’ real-life problems.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you fare very well.

Ever your vaguely unwell but optimistic hospital roommate,
Lucky

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Don’t forget: for this introductory period, I’m offering a permanent 20% off annual subscriptions, so now is the time to sign up to get the best value.

I’m excited to share Lucky’s Letters with you, starting this Friday.