Drop the fire, dumbass.

Seems like it would be sound advice, right? You’re holding something that’s going to burn you, leave you with blistered skin and scars for life.

So put it down.

But what if it’s not that simple? What if it’s not a matter of just letting go? Because you know what happens when you let go, right? The law of gravity is unavoidable. It’s impossible to defy without strapping rockets to your ass and, well, that’s just a bad idea.

Yet what if it’s something that’s so important to you, you can’t figure out how to let it go…and still hang on? Because letting go just isn’t an option. You can’t afford to watch it fall, crash, burn itself out and go still and quiet, leaving a charred lump of “oops” in its wake. You’ve worked too hard. You’ve wanted it too much. What is this thing, the thing that’s on fire and threatening to burn you to the ground?

It’s your writing career.

I know, I know. You look at this and think, “Huh?” But it’s true. And it doesn’t just apply to writing, but let’s start there. Writing is a generally solitary endeavor. You create imaginary friends and build worlds to play in, and people sometimes pay you for it. How could this get any better, right? How could this possibly go wrong? It happens when you aren’t looking, when you’re so focused in another direction that you never see it coming. You get caught up in the momentum of creativity and you forget, quite innocently at first, that there’s life outside the worlds you create, real life. You find writer friends and pull them into your sphere. They are, after all, people who understand you and can validate your mania. And they fit in so well. Already, the balance beam of your writing has been lit, at both ends, and you’re too enamored to see the growing flames.

After a while, you get so wrapped up in what is going on that you ignore the flames that are creeping toward you. I mean, the heat feels pretty nice. It’s January, after all. Consider it a free cosmic utility.

And then the fire’s there. It’s nipping at the tender pads of your fingers and you’re dancing around, blowing on the flames to try to chase them back. You can’t figure out how you didn’t see this happen, how those closest to you didn’t encourage you to tamp the all-consuming flames into a manageable, sustained burn. But you know what? It’s not their responsibility.

Writing is like anything in that too much of a good thing is, well, too much. Authors are required to do so much for their careers, whether they self-pub, e-pub or traditionally publish their works. There are different mindsets on this, that author sales aren’t influenced at all by exerting the time and effort to those who pour everything they have into their work, spending every waking moment pushing forward with the hope that the wall separating them from elusive success will move, even an inch. You know what I’m going to say, right? Both approaches are wrong. Both. Are. Wrong. If you aren’t willing to invest at least something, don’t expect anything in return. This is true in life, love, friendship, pet ownership, cooking, hell – even breathing. Nothing comes without some effort. You can’t take a single breath and expect that to be all the effort required of you any more than you can write a story and expect it to carry itself to the NYT List. Yes, it happens — to vampires and other oddities. Most of us don’t fall into that category.

It’s equally wrong, though, to become so involved in writing that all else ceases to exist. It is remarkably unhealthy to eat only one type of food (hello, Little Debbie) or to think one singular thought (hello, uh…never mind but Sam Bond? It’s totally about you.). You have to experience the rich and abundant offerings of life or you become monochromatic and unbalanced (infer what you will). There are experiences to be had, some that are even like ripe, low-hanging fruit — there for the taking. But you can miss them if you’re busy burning up your talent in one grand gesture of crazy effort. And you know what? Whether you want to believe it or not, your writing will suffer for such a narrow viewpoint of life. How can you think to give a richness of life to your characters if you don’t step out and live it?

So how do you achieve balance like this? There are three key ideas here.

1.  Manage the Fire: You need to have a certain level of burning passion for your writing, whether it’s a hobby or a career. But notice I say  ”a certain level.” I’m never going to endorse someone dousing their creative mind in lighter fluid and reaching for a match. Uh, hell no. You’ve got to do what firefighters call a Controlled Burn. You direct the flames, you control what they have access to as far as fuel and you never let it get out of control. If you don’t control it, it will control you. Simple matter of fact, my friends.

2.  Develop Support Networks: Have friends around you who are brave enough to tell you when the flames are beginning to singe hair. I have one friend in particular who said this to me last week. I balked and shook my head, backing away from the crazy lady. Turns out you can’t run from yourself: I was the crazy lady. She was right. I’d delved too far into the flames and was losing myself. Surrounds yourself with people who will help fan the flames of creativity, but are also will to help you keep from burning alive. It’s a fine balance, yes, but it’s possible to achieve.

3. Live: Seems simple, doesn’t it? If you’re burning out of control, it’s not. You’ve got to remember that there is life outside of your writing. I am the absolute worst at remembering this, so don’t feel like I’m pointing fingers. I get wrapped up in my word count and deadlines and begin to live, eat and breathe writing. My life has suffered for it. I’m remarkably fortunate that I have a husband who is totally supportive and patient, friends and fellow writers who encourage me to get out and absorb a little vitamin D and a family who loves me despite my obsessive quirks. Make time for yourself. Make time for those who are important to you. Don’t ever put yourself in the position where you look up and find yourself alone. Nothing, not even writing, is worth losing the most precious of your relationships over. The flip side is that the people who are most precious to you will understand and not ask you to give writing up. Find a way to invite them to roast marshmallows near the flames of your passion; involve them.

Never forget to live, my friends.
Your stories will be richer
for your own experiences.