The Fire Starter Sessions: A Soulful + Practical Guide to Creating Success on Your Own Terms: A Soulful and Practical Guide to Creating Success on Your Own Terms - Hardcover

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A former think tank exec, business strategist and publicist, Danielle LaPorte is one of the most popular—and original—personal development and career-advice writers online. Forty-something, tattooed, and versed in Buddhism and P&L statements, Danielle is a gifted motivational speaker, and has been featured in Elle, Body + Soul, More, Vogue Australia, Better Homes and Gardens, Globe and Mail,the National Post, Huffington Post, Entertainment Tonight, USA Todayand BusinessWeek.com.

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the truth punctuates

You shouldn’t take advice from someone you don’t really know,who hasn’t dreamed big, or suffered for a spell. Or with whom you haven’texperienced at least one major religious holiday. The Sessions that await youabound with righteous persuasions and advice. Thus, you and I should get a bitmore acquainted. So before you get to the business of soulunfurling and ambition refining, andtaking my word on any of it, allow me to introduce myself by way of a verydefining moment in my life.

We had the corner table at JJ Bean Café on Commercial Drive andSixth. There were loan documents, term sheets, and talking points piled next tomy peppermint tea. I was looking to Lance, my investor and mentor, to give mesome straight-up sage advice. My company was being torn apart by a clash ofwills and motives. It was wretched. Everything was on the line: hundreds ofthousands of dollars, five years of full-tilt labor and love, long-termrelationships, ­reputations—­a very big dream. I had a lawyer (two of them). Ihad a business coach. I had a Buddhist shrink. What I needed was a friend withhard-core business ­acumen—­someone who knew the ropes and who knew me.

I had that desperate “Whatshould I do?” crease across my forehead. I was pushing hard for answers,somersaulting over Scenario A or B or . . . Z. Lance made it clear, with his eyes twinkling.He said:

You must be kidding me. Free? I’d never feltso trapped in my life. The pressure was a whole new phenomenon in my nervoussystem. Bankers were calling my cell phone, investors were having clandestinemeetings without me, and my once beloved business partner and I hadn’t spokento each other in months. . . .

trial by fire:  how I got here

I have a degree in faking it till you make it. I earned it, andthen I burned it. In 2000, I was wearing a black suit and loafers, with astraight bob haircut. As executive director of a Washington, D.C.–based thinktank of world-class futurists, I shopped white papers to the Pentagon and theWorld Bank. I wrangled an incredible team of quirky, Mensa-level thinkers tosurmise and analyze potential outcomes for the AIDS epidemic in Africa,possible global water shortages, chaotic social meltdowns . . . and stuff likethat. In terms of think tanks, it was Candy Land. Smart, fast-moving, andfunded. Almost daily I was asked where I went to college (I didn’t), and tosign yet another nondisclosure agreement (which I did). From nine to five, Iread about weapons of mass destruction and scenario planning; on weekends, itwas Rilke’s poetry, Jiddu Krishnamurti’s theology, and the latest Rolling Stone.

James Carville said that “D.C. is Hollywood for ugly people.” Thinktanks are a bit glam in the Capitol. But behind my title and White Housesecurity pass, I was managing a raging impostor complex. I craved pop cultureand mysticism. My, uh, progressive attitudeclashed with the policies and posturing that is the fabric of the politicalscene. In my first month in town, I showed up to a White House meeting withpurple streaks in my hair. I may as well have flashed a KGB badge when I pulledup to the table. The meeting chair took me aside afterward. “You’re not fromhere, are you?” he said with a wink.

I was learning a lot, but mostlyI was wilting inside. Eventually I resigned. More accurately, I fled, back tomy homeland, burned out and confused. I looked at my loafers and thought, “Whothe hell bought those?” I schlepped my suits to the consignment store,dyed my hair bright red, pierced my nose, and got some new tattoos. Naturally.

Then came the inevitable identity crisis and searching. There was asojourn to India for a private meeting with the Dalai Lama, time in ashrams andretreat centers, tea with Eckhart Tolle. In order to make the rent I revived myold communications and publicity agency “for visionary people and projects,”and I did what I swore I’d never do again: hustled other people’s ideas tojaded television producers and radio show hosts. Meanwhile, some friends and Iwere plotting to raise a million bucks to open an urban ­ spa-­meets-­yoga-­studio-meets-community-center-meets-organic- restaurant-meets-boutique (and we could franchise!). Then I woke up to the obviousfact that I didn’t want to do anything that involved having a set of masterkeys or giving staff performance reviews. I tried to get into art school. Istill have that rejection letter.

And then a new opportunity presented itself. After months of wanderingand awkward networking, I joined forces with a hardworking friend who had agood idea. She had the inspired concept, I had the brains for getting stuff outthe door, and we both had a lotta style. We quickly and successfully launchedwhat could most simply be called an image consultancy company . . . with soul.

This was a quantum leap toward my truer calling. I was wearinglinen tunics and twisted my hair into dreadlocks. We raised hundreds ofthousands of dollars in investment capital and hired a hotshot CEO to run theshow. I wrote our flagship book, and my partner Art directed it. The OprahShow, producers called. Magazines flew in photographers to take ourpicture. Major TV networks romanced us. Our site traffic climbed ­exponentially—­justwhat we desired. We were headed to what we wanted to be: rich ’n’ famous, andfast. But profit and status began to lead the charge, and our slogan, “inspireauthenticity,” became tragically . . . inauthentic.

Every day before I walked into our stylin’ studio office with itsglossy white walls and big abstract art, I had to psych myself up for thecreative tension that awaited me, the strife that would eventually flatten ourlittle empire. A sunny Monday morning. My hand on the doorknob next to a plaquewith my name on it. I took a deep breath before I opened the door. You can do this, I said to myself. Quickly followed by thethought, This is so utterly fucked. Apply a smile andenter stage left: “Good morning, everybody.” This grin ’n’ bear it entry intothe day got to be a habit.

I became increasingly quiet as more opinions about how we shouldgrow the company got added to the mix. There was a lot of money on the line fora lot of people, like the friends who had chipped in a month’s salary to becomeinvestors, and the various venture capitalists who wrote six-figure checks. Thedream was big, and I wasn’t going to sound the alarms with my abstract andunquantifiable concerns that things just didn’t feel right. I didn’t think that lack of laughter in the officewould be considered a key data point for the investors. The day I gave oversigning authority on the company bank account, I wanted to scream, “This iswrong! Very, very wrong. May the Goddess of Creative Justice enforce her wrath,thereby righting this perturbation in the very depths of my soul!” But thatwould have been so, you know, dramatic. Instead, I saidnothing. We had obligations now, and I was going to be democratic, responsible,shrewd, and all kinds of flexible in order to make good on those promises.

Shortly before it all imploded my business partner and I did avideo interview with a high-profile business website. We lied like rugs. “Yes,thank you, it is so great to inspire thousands of womenevery week to live more authentically.” Then I think we threw in some bullshitabout the thrill of being...