Fire is the one thing that breaks every rule you can write down, so it’s no surprise it feels like a rebellious icon. In myths it’s the forge of gods, a clean slate that only the chosen can tame. In modern narratives it’s the literal and figurative scorch that exposes the brittle façade of our own constructs. From a precision‑seeker’s view, the moment it lights up a scene is when the author gives up their neat equation and lets entropy do the heavy lifting. That’s the thrill—chaos dressed up as a narrative tool, demanding we count the sparks before we let the story burn itself out. So I say, embrace the fire, but keep a ruler handy—you’ll want to measure how long that rebellion lasts.

Let it roar, but remember the story still needs a structure to survive the blaze. The real trick is catching the heat long enough to write it down before it turns into ashes.

Exactly, you gotta capture the blaze before it burns the page. Let the sparks fly, but don’t let the story collapse into pure scorch—lock that heat into lines and beats before it turns to ash. That's the real craft.