It only makes sense to seek advice from those who’ve achieved success. Rather than reinvent the wheel, why not just imitate the inventors? Or at least listen to what they’ve got to say about the subject.

I’ve been the grateful recipient of a lot of advice over the more than 40 years I’ve toiled as a newspaper journalist and, more recently, a novelist.

I once worked for a sports editor who set an indelible example for work-life balance. His advice: Come in early, bust your butt to finish the job and then get the hell out of Dodge.

I’ve been equally fortunate to receive excellent advice from some talented mystery writers, among them Kevin Wolf and Mark Stevens. I’d do well to follow their examples in telling compelling tales set in Colorado.

It’s probably true of people involved in most vocations. But writers seem an especially generous lot in sharing their time and talents, not to mention their encouragement.

A friend who pens both long novels and short stories — I’m writing about you, now, Mike Caulfield — recently shared a link to a post on the Literary Hub website. The post collected some of the best advice Ray Bradbury offered about writing.

Bradbury is perhaps best known as the author of “Fahrenheit 451,” “The Martian Chronicles” and his collection of short stories in “The Illustrated Man.” One of my favorite books, though, is “Something Wicked This Way Comes,” his haunting fantasy about what happens when a traveling carnival shows up in a Midwestern town.

I admired two related bits of Bradbury advice mentioned in the post:

“Don’t write for money. Write because you love to do something. If you write for money, you won’t write anything worth reading.”

“Writing is not a serious business. It’s a joy and a celebration. You should be having fun at it. … If it’s work, stop it and do something else.”

It might seem counterintuitive for someone who’s spent most of his life more or less writing for money to agree with his advice not to. Or, for that matter, that writing isn’t a serious business.

So let me add what I consider some important caveats to Bradbury’s advice.

Don’t write JUST for money. While I’ve been blessed to make a living writing, it’s never been about the money. It’s always been about the stories I’m privileged to tell.

While writing is indeed serious business that demands hard work, it ALSO should be fun. And it is. I can think of few things more fun than using a word that’s just right, brandishing a well-turned phrase or completing a scene I can’t wait to share with readers.

As is so often the case, good advice applies more broadly than initially intended.

The business of business, for example, is to make money. It’s an existential objective. Operating a business requires hard work and plenty of it. But it also should be a labor of love, one that’s fun.

It’s been my experience writing news stories as well as fiction that those who enjoy their work are more likely to enjoy success.

At least that’s my advice.

I’ve long wondered what makes geniuses so … ingenious. 

How could DaVinci envision his remarkable inventions? What enabled Mozart to compose such magnificent music? Where did Einstein draw his inspiration to develop his theories on relativity?

For that matter, how, oh how, did Bill Watterson cram so much creativity, humor and insight into a comic strip about a hyperactive kid and his toy tiger?

Perhaps the more important question for the rest of us poor schmoes is this: Is there anything we can learn from geniuses to apply to our lives? If we can’t be geniuses, can we at least achieve to some degree their levels of prowess? 

If nothing else, I’d like to write a well-turned phrase once in a while.

Craig Wright explores this topic in his book titled “The Hidden Habits of Genius: Beyond Talent, IQ, and Grit—Unlocking the Secrets of Greatness.” A music professor at Yale University, Wright also taught a popular course there on the nature of genius.

So what makes geniuses geniuses? As Wright repeats in his book, there is no answer.

For starters, there’s disagreement over what constitutes a genius. Talent and intelligence are involved, but there’s more to it than that. Wright quotes the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer: “A person of talent hits a target that no one else can hit; a person of genius hits a target that no one else can see.”

Wright offers his own definition of genius as someone of extraordinary mental powers whose original works or insights significantly change society over time.

As unique as they are, geniuses share some commonalities — what Wright considers their hidden habits. Their work ethic, curiosity and passion. But also their faults as not-so-great human beings.

I was especially interested in what Wright had to write about authors — among them Mary Shelley, Toni Morrison and J.K. Rowling.

Wright cites their imagination. Think of the creature Shelley brings to life in “Frankenstein” or wizarding world Rowling builds for her Harry Potter series.

Then there’s grit. When she was a single mother raising two sons in a small rented home in Queens, Morrison got up early and stayed up late to write. 

And then there’s resolve borne of adversity. Rowling believed if she had enjoyed even a modicum of success in another endeavor, she never would have developed the determination to succeed as a writer. Her rock bottom became the solid foundation upon which she built a career as one of the best-selling authors of all time.

I’m no genius. I don’t even play one on TV. But I’d like to believe I’m smart enough to learn from the efforts of others, to take to heart the importance of imagination, grit and determination.

I’m even hopeful that some day perhaps my efforts will prove … ingenious.

’Tis the season. For, among other things, holiday newsletters. You know, those annual missives you receive, typically from distant relations.

You only met once, and that was at a family reunion 15 years ago in Iowa. But every year since, they’ve confided in intimate detail what’s occurred in their lives. And it’s always amazing. Too good to be true, in fact.

Your second cousin Fred won the Ironman World Championship. And Aunt Ethel, bless her heart, received Nobel prizes for both chemistry and physics.

Before I poke too much fun at holiday newsletters, let me confess two things. First, I enjoy newsletters. If only for the reassurance at least once a year family and friends are doing well. Incredibly well, judging by what they write. Second, I send out newsletters myself.

My bragfest this year includes announcements my oldest son, Zach, received his MBA from Dartmouth and went to work for Goldman Sachs. My youngest son Alex — the CPA — was promoted at the big accounting firm where he works. Oh, that’s right. I almost forgot. An entry based on my novel “Small Town News” won the Colorado Gold Rush Literary Award in the mystery and thriller category. 

No kidding. As humor columnist and author Dave Barry reiterates so eloquently: I’m not making this up.

Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of blessings to count. And I do. With gratitude.

Near the end of what might charitably be called an interesting year for holiday newsletters, I’m reminded of the opening line by Charles Dickens, one of the best in literature: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

For me, the best of 2020 exceeded the worst. Best of all, family and friends remain safe, even those who tested positive for COVID-19. I’m relieved. 

I’m also reminded that for many people, this isn’t the case. For some, 2020 has been one long nightmare from which they can’t seem to awake. And for those who’ve lost loved ones, the pandemic has been heart-rending.

I can only hope 2021 will be better. For everyone. And by this time next year, we’ll all have happier news to share in our holiday newsletters.

As for Cousin Fred and Aunt Ethel. Well, what can I say? You guys rock.

One of my favorite Mark Twain quotes describes the gulf between the almost right word and the right word: “’Tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Invariably clever and frequently profound, Twain draws a distinction that couldn’t be much bigger. What’s more powerful? A tiny insect or fearsome force of nature?

No wonder I fret over my choice of words. Or is it brood? Or, better still, agonize? See what I mean?

That’s the blessing and curse of the English language. There are so many words from which to choose — by one estimate more than 170,000 in current use. Yet, each word conveys a different meaning.

It’s possible, I suppose, to write with almost right words — to even make a point in some vague fashion. It’s impossible to write with clarity without the right words.

There’s an added benefit to using the right words. They usually work better than a boatload of almost right words.

That’s particularly true in replacing adverbs — words that modify other words, usually verbs. Novelist Stephen King once proclaimed the road to hell is paved with adverbs.

I could recount appallingly how I ran quickly around the track until I tired badly and struggled mightily to catch my breath. In other — and, I’d contend, better — words, I sprinted until I crumpled spent and gasping.

Word choice sometimes comes down to big and little. In most cases, less is more. I admit, though, I sometimes succumb to the temptation to use bigger words when it would be better to eschew obfuscation.

Ultimately, the best choice remains the right choice, that one, wonderful word that conveys exactly the intended meaning.

’Tis the difference between the lighting bug and the lightning.