The Boundary I Didn't Know I'd Need to Draw

On people learning you're a writer, the requests that follow, and the quiet art of protecting your creative energy

This post has nothing to do with this dog. I just think he's adorable.

There's a particular moment that happens when people in your life find out you're a writer.

There's genuine warmth in it, usually. A shift in how they see you — something between surprise and admiration and the very human impulse to connect a new fact about someone to an existing feeling. And that part is lovely, genuinely. I don't take it lightly that people respond to creativity with curiosity and warmth.

But then comes the second moment.

For me, it arrived in a series of small waves. A coffee conversation that turned into a forty-minute story concept someone wanted me to evaluate. A message that opened with "I've always had this idea for a book and I just want to know what you think" and then contained several paragraphs of plot. An offer of unsolicited feedback on my process from someone who, to my knowledge, has never written anything longer than a strongly worded email. (The feedback was confident. I will say that for it.)

None of these people meant harm. That's important and I want to say it clearly — the intentions were almost always good, often enthusiastic, occasionally extremely invested in a way that was actually quite touching. But creative energy is a resource with a finite daily supply. And I found mine being quietly redistributed to projects and conversations that weren't mine, without my full awareness of it happening, until I noticed I was sitting down to my own work feeling vaguely depleted before I'd typed a word.

So I've been drawing some lines. Gently. Specifically. In ways that don't require drama or explanation.

The "I'd love to but I'm in a busy season" deflection is real and useful and I'm not ashamed of it. It's also not a lie. I am always in some kind of season. That's the nature of the work.

The redirect has become a close friend. "I'm not the right person for this, but have you looked into [writers' groups, developmental editors, craft books]?" is a complete and kind answer. It acknowledges the desire behind the ask without making me the solution.

The honest conversation, when the relationship called for it, went better than I expected. "I love that you want to share this with me, and I want to be honest that I have pretty limited creative bandwidth right now outside my own projects." Most people, when spoken to directly and warmly, understand. The ones who don't understand are, themselves, useful information.

The trickier thing — the one I'm still working out — is the unsolicited advice. There's a specific flavor of it that appears when you're visible in your creative work: people who haven't done the thing you're doing but feel moved to instruct you in how to do it. Usually with good intentions. Occasionally with remarkable confidence.

My current approach is to listen, thank them, and then go do exactly what I was going to do. Which sounds passive but is actually a decision I'm making consciously and I've found oddly empowering.

Here's what I've landed on, at least for now: protecting your creative energy is not selfishness. It's stewardship. The work doesn't happen without it. And the work — your work, the specific strange particular work that only you can make — deserves a version of you that hasn't been poured out into everyone else's requests before you even get to it.

Draw the line gently. Draw it anyway.

— Indigo Winter 🗝️