As I gear up for the Tales of Dominions Kickstarter, I now have proof copies of the special edition paperback and hardcover.
I’m already looking forward to ordering copies for others—but that’ll only happen after the Kickstarter campaign. It all starts on 9th June. To ensure you don’t miss out, click here and have Kickstarter notify you when the campaign launches.
And please share this with anyone who might enjoy a collection of dark Dystopian novellas and short stories.
Over the next few posts I’m going to be diving into lessons I’ve learnt from climbing, and how they relate to writing. I’ve enjoyed climbing for a long time (roughly as long as I’ve enjoyed writing), but it’s only recently that I’ve become more serious (or maybe the word should be ‘intentional’) about both endeavours. Along the way I’ve noticed connections between the two activities. Lessons I’ve learnt at the climbing wall correlate to lessons I’ve learnt typing away on my laptop. And on reflection, these lessons could be seen as ‘life lessons’.
But let’s back up. I need to tell you a little about my climbing.
I’ve never been keen on sports. Never got into football. Didn’t play on any teams. I swam with the local swimming club, but I never pushed myself particularly hard. I think I was content simply ploughing up and down. Oh, and I did enjoy cross-country running at school. I wasn’t the fastest, but I could keep going. I’d settle into my own rhythm and enjoy a bit of alone-time.
Definitely introverted tendencies coming out here.
Then, in my twenties, I wound up working in an outdoor activity centre in North Wales. This introduced me to all kinds of new activities—canoeing, archery, hill-walking. And climbing.
And I enjoyed them.
In retrospect, I can understand why. These activities aren’t sports so much as physical pastimes. The aim isn’t to ‘win’, but to enjoy the activity itself. They had their social elements, but these weren’t too overt—going climbing with someone isn’t the same as going to a pub in a group. And, in all these activities, there’s a certain amount of time spent alone. In climbing, even when with others, there’s usually only one person actually climbing at any one time, the other belaying (’holding the rope’).
A quick note on the word ‘climbing’. It covers a wide range of activities, from mountaineering to bouldering. I started with multi-pitch rock climbing—using ropes and all kinds of metal-work, learning how to securely attach myself and others to the rock, often spending a whole day on a single route (usually with fairly long walks to and from the rock-face). Later I got into bouldering—climbing shorter routes that don’t require ropes. I now climb at an indoor bouldering wall—twelve feet high, lots of mats, short but tricky problems to solve.
Back to my climbing story. I enjoyed the activity, but I never particularly pushed myself. I was content on easier routes, enjoying the experience and the views. I never tried harder routes. I wasn’t interested in working on my technique.
Eventually I stopped working at outdoor centres, and life took various turns (as it does). I still had all my gear (ropes and so on) but didn’t go climbing.
Until, about a decade ago, I chanced upon an indoor bouldering wall close to where I was then working. And when a change of jobs made it convenient, I started going regularly. But I didn’t particularly try hard (I’m detecting a pattern here!) I was happy simply climbing. I might give a problem a couple of goes, but if I couldn’t manage it I’d move on to something else.
But, slowly, that attitude changed. I started watching others, and talking with them. I started picking up on different techniques.
And, over the last couple of years, I’ve been pushing. I now usually go twice a week. Rather than give up after a couple of goes on a route, I’ll ‘project’ it—trying different techniques and approaches, climbing different sections then trying to put it all together, and coming back to it over a few weeks.
I’m improving. I wouldn’t say I’m a good climber (I’m probably on the low end of average). And at my age I can’t expect fast improvements. I’m not as flexible as I used to be. If I injure myself it takes longer to recover. My day-job (lots of heavy lifting) helps keep me in shape, but I’m not in my twenties any more. I know I’ll reach a point where physical limitations mean I can’t push onto harder routes. At some point remaining at the same grade will be success. But until I reach that point, I want to keep improving. A few weeks ago I managed to get up a route graded v7 (I usually just about manage a few v6 climbs), and while I’m sure it was soft for the grade, this has spurred me on to try more climbs at this level. And to have any chance at completing them, I know I need to improve my technique as well as my ‘mental game’.
So that’s where I am with climbing. And there are clear parallels with my writing development.
I’ve always enjoyed reading, and loved writing stories at school. This was pushed out by guitar playing for a while, but one winter, around working shifts at a local flour mill, I wrote a draft of my very first novel. I wrote it in pencil, in exercise books.
And it was terrible. I’ve since typed it into a computer, and I still have the file somewhere, and that’s where it’s going to stay. An achievement to have finished a story of novel length, yes, but it’s not something I’d want to inflict on readers.
Fast-forward to about ten years ago, and work wasn’t going well. I think I turned to writing as an escape (and I may expand on this later). In 2015 I made the conscious decision to ‘get serious with writing’. I wrote (or edited) every day. I planned a series. In 2016 I released the first three books in that series.
As of last year, and I had around twenty titles out. I was coming to the end of my third series, and was planning a new project. That project is the subject of this collection of posts—my space-opera series and spin-off series.
And, as I’ve previously mentioned in these posts, I felt this was a gear-change. To pull this series off I needed to focus. I need (and want) to vastly improve my writing.
So, I’m currently striving to improve in both climbing and writing. And, as I mentioned earlier, I’m seeing more and more parallels between the two. Lessons I learn at the wall relate to writing, and vice versa.
One of these lessons is that it is hard to improve in supposedly solitary activities without other people.
The kind of climbing I now do, bouldering, requires no ropes. I don’t need a partner to tackle a route. Once I’m at the wall I choose a problem and climb.
And I can make progress on my own. But it’s slow. I don’t know what I don’t know, so when I’m stuck I can’t always see a way forward.
Climbing with others helps me overcome this.
There’s a wonderful camaraderie amongst climbers. The atmosphere in climbing walls is always friendly. There is always someone around who’ll offer advice or suggest a different approach to a particular climb. As I rest between climbs I can watch and talk to others, picking up new ideas and techniques.
This help doesn’t have to come from ‘better’ climbers either. There’s one particular climber I often see at the wall who doesn’t manage the higher grades I climb, but when he’s on the wall he moves with incredible control. Watching him reminds me that I need to focus on my technique rather than throwing myself at holds. And because he relies on technique rather than strength he’ll approach problems from different angles, showing me more efficient ways to climb.
The encouragement from others is important too. So is the opportunity to rest and talk—when climbing on my own there’s too much temptation to keep going rather than allowing my body the rest it needs between attempts.
And, even for an introvert like me, there is a certain pleasure in being around others who share common interests.
Other people are important in writing, too.
Yes, a large part of the appeal of writing is the solitary nature of it—shutting myself off from everything and diving into imaginary worlds. But if I want to improve, I need to learn from others. This can be at a remove—reading books or listening to podcasts. It can be more direct—taking courses or attending conferences. And it can be even more personal.
I’ll admit I struggle with this. I’m as introverted online as I am in real life. Interacting with others, even on social media, is something I find hard. But I’m realising more and more that I need the support of other writers. If I’m part of a group of writers I have others to bounce ideas off, others to ask for advice. Being in a community of writers would provide encouragement along with practical support. Also, in the same way that watching others climb and reflecting on what I see can improve my climbing, seeing how other writers do things (be that craft-related or in marketing and advertising) can offer me fresh perspectives and new ideas.
So, my first lesson—community is important. Even if it means pushing beyond my comfort zone, I need to reach out to others if I’m serious about improving.
Next time I’ll examine what climbing has taught me about the nature of progress, and how that relates to my writing.
This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this new project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.
As I work on a new series I’m also tying up loose ends on previous series. One of these involves the various Dominions stories I’ve published—those novellas and shorts that work as side-stories to the main nine-novel series. I’ve wanted to bundle them up in a single volume for a while, and I’ve finally got around to it.
Tales of Dominions will include all the published stories—Gatekeeper, Expedient, Errant, Animus and Impact—along with behind-the-scenes notes. It will also include Control, a novella previously only available through my newsletter.
Tales of Dominions will be available in ebook, paperback and hard-cover—but I’m not releasing it in the usual stores. Initially, Tales of Dominions will only be available through Kickstarter. And this will also include special exclusive print versions.
This Kickstarter campaign starts in the middle of next month, running for about three weeks. But if it sounds interesting, you can visit the pre-launch page. Click on the ‘notify me on launch’ button, and Kickstarter will email you when the campaign goes live.
Last week I read The Book Of Elsewhere, the collaboration between China Mieville and Keanu Reeves. I knew nothing about this book when I got it. I’ve read a couple of Mieville’s books, and I’ve enjoyed them, but apart from that, I came into The Book Of Elsewhere with no preconceptions.
I’m still not sure what I think of the ending, but I was definitely engrossed in the story after the first hundred pages.
Those first hundred pages, though, were tough. I wasn’t sure what was happening. Maybe this was intentional, or perhaps I simply wasn’t reading with enough focus, but I was confused. I had to read slowly. After browsing reviews, it looks like quite a few reviewers had similar reactions and didn’t finish the book.
I persevered, in part because I don’t like giving up on any book, but also because I trusted Mieville. The previous books of his I’ve read were strange, and the writing leaned towards a literary style. He’s not easy-reading. But he’s good. He knows what he’s doing. I chose to believe that he’d pull the story together, that all this struggle would pay off. And that trust was paid off.
This got me thinking. With any book, the reader has to trust that the writer knows what they’re doing—that those fragments at the start will come together at the end, that the seemingly random references will be important as the story develops. But there’s also trust in the other direction. A writer has to trust the reader.
A comment I received on my earlier books was that I explained too much (that was the gist of the comment, at least). And it’s a valid complaint. I wanted readers to experience the story through the characters, so I naturally wanted readers to know how the characters were reacting emotionally. I felt I needed to let the reader into the characters’ inner monologues.
But I was over-explaining. A lot of the time, even when I showed the character’s reaction, I’d also tell the reader how they felt.
Telling, not showing. I was breaking that fundamental ‘rule’. Yes, there are times when it’s more efficient to tell the reader what’s happening, but usually (and especially in important scenes) it’s better to show. It’s better to let the reader experience the scene through the actions and words of the characters.
It’s the difference between telling the reader that a character is angry and showing that character becoming withdrawn, or having them snap back when asked a question. It comes back to Chekov’s advice—‘Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass’.
I can understand why I over-explained, and why I told the reader so much. It was down to trust. For one thing, I didn’t have enough experience to trust myself. But also, in not wanting the reader to miss anything, I didn’t trust them to pick up on subtle clues—like a character growing uncharacteristically quiet, or seeing light glinting on broken glass.
Readers are smart. Readers—and I’m talking about habitual readers here, those who always have a book on the go—have experience of story. They’ve devoured hundreds and thousands of character portrayals, scenes of emotional dialogue, well-crafted descriptions and so on. Reading is active (more active than watching visual media), so readers engage more of their intellect when reading.
And nobody likes to be beaten over the head. Nobody likes to be treated like an idiot. Dumb things down too much, and readers turn away.
But what if I’m too subtle? What if I don’t give the reader enough?
It’s a balancing act, and there are no perfect solutions. A big reason for this is that every reader is different. Some will pick up on those small clues, see them as obvious. Others will miss them entirely. But even readers who miss the clues consciously can pick up on them subconsciously.
I’m sure this has happened to you—you’re reading a book, and it should be good. It has everything you normally enjoy in a decent story, but something’s missing. It’s leaving you cold. You can’t quite put your finger on what’s wrong.
But your subconscious knows. It’s picked up on something, maybe in the writing, maybe in the story, possibly in the characters. It’s used all that experience, all those other books you’ve read, and it’s detected a problem in this one.
Then there are those ‘surprising but inevitable’ moments. A character does something unexpected, yet it feels right. Better than that—it’s good. Or the story develops in a way you could never have imagined, and even though you want to dismiss it as ridiculous, something about it makes total sense.
This is where those subtle clues come in. The writer has sprinkled them earlier in the story, passing moments that the reader hasn’t consciously noticed—but the subconscious has. And, when the twist comes, the reader can take a moment to reflect, and those clues become clearer.
A classic example of this is The Sixth Sense. Yes, some people saw the end coming, but for many the final revelation was a shock—but one that made sense when considering all those earlier scenes—the anniversary dinner where his wife doesn’t seem to register him being there, the scene where he’s sitting silently with someone else, no words spoken, no eye contact made.
If those clues had been too blatant, the shock of the revelation wouldn’t have been so effective.
So, in writing these new books, I need to be subtle. I need to trust the reader to pick up on those little character moments, those phrases dropped into the text, those references that on the surface appear to be nothing but world-building.
And getting this right won’t be easy. I won’t be able to succeed for every reader (because every reader is different). But I can try. Not in first-drafting, but in editing. Being aware of the issue is half the battle. Once I have the story working I will go back through it all, looking for places I’ve told too much, seeking moments I can drop those subtle hints.
Readers are smart. As a writer, it’s important that I remember this and trust them.
This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this new project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.
TW Iain 