Writing and the Fun Scale — A Guest Post by Debbie Burke

(Quick note from Larry: this courageous guest post from Debbie is a genuine gift. It’s a warm hug from someone who knows and feels what you are experiencing as an author. She’s a terrific writer and a wonderful person who is well loved within the writing community. And… her new novel – and the last one – is truly excellent.)

My friend, Sarah Rugheimer, climbs mountains. Big mountains. Kilimanjaro (19,341 feet),Chimborazo (20,564 feet), Aconcagua (22,841 feet). Sarah is also a high achiever at low elevations. She holds a PhD in astrophysics from Harvard, currently teaches at Oxford, and was just selected to give a TED talk.

So, when she introduces me to an unfamiliar concept, I pay attention. Recently, she explained the “FUN SCALE” as it relates to mountain climbing.

TYPE 1 FUN is when you enjoy what you’re doing while you’re doing it.

That’s an afternoon hike to Hidden Lake in Glacier National Park, spotting mountain goats and marmots along the way, and standing on the cliff of heaven as you gaze down at pristine, turquoise water.

TYPE 2 FUN is miserable at the time you’re doing it but fun to talk about afterwards. It’s that same hike to Hidden Lake, except a snowstorm blows in, temperatures drop 50 degrees in minutes, your blisters hurt so badly you can hardly walk, and your nose gets frostbitten. But, later, that climb becomes an entertaining story to share over beers in front of a crackling fireplace. Now, you’re warm, dry, and can laugh about it.

TYPE 3 FUN is never fun, not while it’s happening, not looking back years later.It’s coughing up pink froth because blood and fluid fill your lungs from altitude sickness. Or it’s breaking through an ice crust and tumbling into a sheer fissure that you can’t climb out of. If you’re lucky, you’re rescued in time, carried down the mountain, and survive. Otherwise, you become an unfortunate statistic.

In fact, I don’t understand why Type 3 is even included on the Fun Scale since it’s never,ever fun.

Like mountaineering, the Fun Scale can be applied to writing.

Some days, it’s Type 1—pages fly by, quicksilver running through your fingertips on the keyboard. A beautiful review appears for your latest book. A fan recommends your series to her book club.

Much of the time, though, writing is Type 2, not fun while you’re doing it but fun to talk about later. You stay up all night to meet a deadline; you make the first cut in a contest but ultimately lose; agents or editors “love the story but just didn’t love it enough.” Then…miraculously…you win the award or your book is accepted.

At last, you’ve attained the enjoyment phase of Type 2 fun. You share stories of your grueling uphill trudge while friends toast your success.

Then there’s Type 3 that’s not fun ever, ever, ever.

That’s the point when many writers give up. Their editor gets fired. Their publisher goes bankrupt. Trolls blanket their book page with scathing reviews. One final rejection is the straw that breaks the back of the staggering camel.

At some point in their careers, most (if not all) writers have spiraled into depression. I tumbled down that chasm in 2003.

My stories had won awards. I was a contributing editor for a glossy wildlife magazine. A terrific, high-end agent represented me. An editor requested a three-book series. I was this close to achieving my lifelong goal of publishing mystery novels.

Then, professional and personal avalanches collapsed on top of me.

The wildlife magazine went kaput. The editor moved to a different house that didn’t handle my genre. The agent cut me loose.

Even worse, serious illnesses felled friends and family members. I feared answering the phone because too often calls meant another loved one had died. A fire wiped out treasured possessions. Nonstop care-giving for family led to my own bout with pneumonia.

What was the point of writing?

Compared to real suffering—chemotherapy, hospice, funerals—the made-up, imaginary problems in my fluffy little mysteries sounded trivial. My fiction was just a silly, frivolous hobby.

In a fit of discouragement, I trashed cartons full of manuscripts and extensive notes taken at conferences and classes I’d attended. More than a decade of work and study went in the garbage.

I languished in Type 3 fun that was not fun, ever, ever, ever.

A close friend recognized my despair and did her best to talk me out of it. “You’re too good a writer to quit. You have things to say that people want to read. Please don’t give up.”

Her kind encouragement made me reconsider. Writing was ingrained in my DNA. I couldn’t quit completely. I switched to editing the work of other authors.

Gradually, time passed, along with that cycle of loss.

Although I wasn’t writing, editing was productive, worthwhile work—manuscripts I worked on became published books; authors thanked me in their acknowledgement pages.

Then one day, an older acquaintance asked me whatever happened to a mystery I’d been working on. Years later, she still remembered excerpts that she’d heard during open readings at our writing group. She said she’d enjoyed them and asked why I’d stopped.

I answered that fiction felt trivial.

She gave me a stern look, heavy with the wisdom of age. “It’s not trivial,” she said, “to write a story that takes someone away from their problems. People need to forget their troubles for a little while.”

Her words struck a chord.

Without knowing it, she’d thrown a lifeline down to me.

Over the next several years, I wrote more novels.

Because I’d endured tragedy with loved ones, my character development grew deeper and more nuanced, the story themes more resonant. Rejections were still rejections but they became increasingly gracious and encouraging.

My nonfiction articles found wider markets. I taught craft classes. Blogs asked me to write guest posts. I was honored when The Kill Zone, an award-winning crime fiction site I’d admired for years, invited me to be a regular contributor.

In 2016, my 10th (that’s right, 10th ) novel, a thriller entitled Instrument of the Devil, won two contests. It was published in 2017. The editor requested the second book in the series, Stalking Midas.

Overnight success only took 30 years!

Three decades of struggle and disappointment turned into Type 2 fun—amusing anecdotes to share at cocktail parties and writing conferences.

Then writing became Type 1 fun—book club appearances, enthusiastic applause at readings,and fan mail.

But, of course, Type 1 fun never lasts.

Six months later, my publisher went out of business. At age 66, I was an orphan. One benefit of growing older (besides Medicare and senior discounts!) is equanimity.

The world did not end. This just became another setback to survive.

That’s life and writing is life.

The third book in my series, Eyes in the Sky, recently launched, and the fourth is in final edits. All the burners on my writing stove are bubbling with projects I’m excited about and believe in. It’s hard work but I’m enjoying it.

My friend Sarah educated me about extreme mountain climbing:

Don’t focus on the summit. Just take the next step, just breathe the next breath.

Concentrate on elements within your control. Eat and stay hydrated. Don’t roll your ankle on a rock.

Take care of your feet—change socks, treat blisters and frostbite before they disable you.

Test the ice crust before you put full weight on it and fall into a crevasse.

Glamorous? No.

Necessary? Yes.

Eventually you’ll reach the summit—Type 1 fun.

That moment is glorious…but fleeting.

Type 3 fun can kill a dream and even a life. Or a writer can file the experience away and use it later. If you have to endure the misery, you might as well turn it into story fodder.

Type 2 fun is where we writers spend much of our careers—most of the time, we struggle.

Occasionally, we enjoy a break to laugh about mishaps and celebrate victories.

And that’s not a bad place to be.