November 8, 2024

In October of this year I suffered my first-ever case of burnout.

And I’d like to talk about that for a few reasons, the biggest of which is so that other writers who may experience similar feelings know that A) It’s okay, you’re not alone and B) It does get better.

My entire life, writing has been a passion. When I was a little kid, I would stare at Stephen King’s black and white image on the back of one of his hardcover books and dream of my adult face being there on my own title. I loved writing ever since I was in 3rd grade, when I’d write cartoon pastiche and bad detective stories. In 7th grade I graduated to novella-length horror and, believe it or not, poetry. Dozens of poems. Don’t believe it? Here’s one I’m particularly fond of (in the way one is fond of a favorite fingerpainting from childhood).

In my 20s and 30s, I wrote dozens of short stories, poems, and three novels (two of which are in print!). I was also writing screenplays (had a couple movies made) and worked part time in the film/tv industry.

In my 40s, I discovered my love of writing horror, and was able to start building a career in publishing. After a few years of hard work and some luck, I was able to start writing full time.

Dream come true. Cue the swelling violins.

For a year or so, I was rabid. Dangerous. I was so excited to have finally achieved my lifelong goal of being a full-time fiction writer that I would do anything, sacrifice anything, to succeed. Or, you know, succeed enough where I could continue to do what I love each and every day.

So I worked. We’re talking 10-12 hours a day, 7 days a week. At the desk. Pounding keys.

Since 2020, I’ve written 6 novels, 27 short stories, and 3 feature-length screenplays.

And everything was fine… until it wasn’t.

In 2023, while rewriting my novel SARAFINA, my father had a severe stroke and began to suffer from dementia. I spent two months in Michigan taking care of him (along with a few of my siblings) before he sadly passed away. During this stretch I was doing edits on the novel in order to make a publisher deadline (for a book we ultimately ended up parting ways on). At the time, I thought it was good to slip into my writing world for an hour or two when I could. In the long run, I’m not so sure.

In 2024, I started writing my next novel, THE AUTUMN SPRINGS RETIREMENT HOME MASSACRE. Before I was 100 pages in, my mother passed away, somewhat suddenly. Again, I was under deadline to have a draft of this book completed, and ended up writing a majority of the novel in the weeks following the funeral, while I was still very raw and grieving (still grieving of course - that doesn’t go away). But I wrote through the pain, and exhaustion, and pushed myself to get the book done on time. Which I did. Stupidly, I think.

From June until October, I was hit with massive rewrites — all under strict deadlines — for SARAFINA, THE THIRD RULE OF TIME TRAVEL, and AUTUMN SPRINGS. During this time I was also promoting my new story collection, NO ONE IS SAFE, as best I could, and dealing with all the usual day-to-day work of a full-time writer, plus traveling for events, keeping up with social media and my Patreon and, you know, dealing with general life stuff.

My plan for 2025 was intensive. I was hoping to write 2 more novels and was working with my agent to push for a deal with one (or both) of my current publishers. I also planned to write a novel for my Patreon. Of course, I knew I already had 2 novels coming out in 2025, and both of those novels would need promotion and travel in order to get them off the ground. And I won’t even get into external stressors like our HOA fees skyrocketing, a nasty bronchial infection, the pending election, or, you know, wars everywhere.

With all of this going on, and all these future plans in my head… I snapped.

In October 2024, I finally pushed myself past my limit and suffered a nervous breakdown. Everything shut down, physically and mentally. It got to the point where I’d see an email that required my attention and I’d get a surge of nausea, or I’d think about what I needed to get done in the upcoming weeks and would essentially go fetal and sleep until I could regain some psychological leverage. And as a guy who spent a majority of his adult life dealing with clinical depression and anxiety, I was very aware of what was happening to me.

I also knew what I had to do.

The first thing I did was inform my incredible patreon members that I’d be scaling back plans for 2025. No novel. I explained why, and the support was overwhelmingly positive and gracious. I have the best readers in the world, for which I’m very thankful.

The next thing I did was get on the phone with my agent and explain that I needed to pump the brakes. Again, she totally understood and immediately withdrew all the work being considered, informed folks that all deals were on hold (aside from one deal we were already negotiating), and told me to take my time in figuring out what came next.

The last thing I did was inform my support system (i.e. my amazing wife) that I’d be scaling back next year—likely only writing a handful of short stories, tinkering with ideas, etc.

In other words, slowing down.

In real time, I made a point to cut back my hours at the desk, at least for a bit. I try to give myself at least one full day off a week now, and limit my office time to around 8 hours instead of the 10-12 I’m used to putting in. I focus on spending more time reading, getting a full night’s sleep, and doing little things like getting to the gym twice a week, or spending more time hanging with my son. In other words, enjoying life a bit more.

The relief was immediate, and impactful.

And now, headed into the new year, I feel I can breathe again. By giving myself that space, I’ve found that I’m eager to write a new book, but will do so at my own pace, and in my own time. I still have a ton to do, but all the hard work of the last few years has set me up to be able to relax a bit more, pull back on the throttle, and take care of myself while I’m doing it.

Look, I know how lucky I am, and please know this isn’t a bitch post. Ultimately, the point of writing all this down is really just to relay my own experience in the hopes it might help someone else going through what I went through, and let you know it’s okay to take a step back; it’s okay to take care of yourself. The world’s not going anywhere (yet), and the work will still be there when you get back to it. But I suggest doing it at a pace you’re comfortable with, that allows you time to breathe, and allows you time to enjoy the other parts of life we’ve all been given.

Sometimes you need to go outside and look at a tree, or trace the path of a butterfly, to know it will all be okay, and that the passion burning inside you shouldn’t be painful, but empowering.