This is the third of a short series on lessons learnt from climbing and how they relate to writing. Click on these links for the introduction, a look at progress, and my thoughts on practice.
Routes in climbing walls aren’t random. Setters position each hold precisely, leading to a sequence of moves that provide a satisfying climb.
A part of the challenge of climbing is ‘reading the route’. If you’ve watched climbing competitions you’ll have seen the climbers studying the wall, reaching up and twisting their body in preparation. They’ll look at holds from different angles, planning the best grip and approach. Reading the route correctly makes for an easier climb, reducing the chance of unwanted surprises.
So, routes are set a particular way. Climbers plan their moves before leaving the mat. Yet no two climbers will reach the top in exactly the same way.
Because everyone is different.
This might seem obvious, but there are hidden subtleties. Yes, height (or arm-span) plays a part. As does flexibility—I struggle to get my body into positions that others fold into with no trouble. Some climbers have stronger upper bodies, others have stronger cores.
And these obvious differences, over time, result in each climber developing in different ways. Because I can hang from holds quite comfortably I naturally dangle around and swing my legs up high, often climbing past problems with my body more horizontal than vertical. This has led to me using lots of side-pulls, which has altered how I approach problems on vertical walls or slabs.
I get up the climb in one way, and someone else will climb it a different way. Even though a route is set to give a particular sequence of moves, there are always alternatives.
Which is why climbing with others is so helpful. Watching others, and talking with them, gives more ideas and opens up more possibilities. I might not use their ideas, but I can adapt them.
A couple of examples: A recent problem I attempted started with a very high right foot. I could get the foot up there, but couldn’t transfer my weight to it. So I swapped, starting with my left foot. It worked—for me. And it required a strange cross-legged move afterwards. I haven’t seen anyone else do it this way, but it suited my style (or maybe that should be ‘eccentricities’?)
A different climb: I could see how it was set, and the obvious hand-holds didn’t look great. But I saw an alternative—one that seemed to surprise the staff at the wall. My way meant hanging low from the start hold and using a high heel, bringing my body horizontal. From here I could twist and reach up for the next hold, avoiding those horrible sloping ones I didn’t like the look of. As with the high foot problem, it wasn’t the way the route was set, but it was the most comfortable and efficient way for me to climb it.
There is never one way to solve a problem. Every climber has to find their own way to reach the top.
And it’s the same in writing.
One question often asked of a writer is “Are you a plotter or a pantser”—do you plan your stories in advance, or discover the story as you write? In reality, these are ends of a spectrum, and writers sit in different positions along that continuum. Some work from detailed outlines that can be thousands of words long, others write from bullet-points for each chapter. Some get with a gem of an idea, start writing, then stop and plan the rest of the story when they reach the half-way point. Others write whatever comes to mind each session until they reach the end.
I try to plan, but as I write things always change. I used to find this frustrating, but now I accept that it’s simply how I function. I like to know where I’m going, but I accept that detours might be needed—and will probably make for a far better journey.
Then there is voice. Not character voice, but writer voice. Someone like Stephen King has a very particular voice in his writing—read a paragraph or two, and you’re in no doubt that you’re reading a King novel. Voices can be imitated, but it’s hard to fully clone another writer’s voice. And why bother? It’s better to develop a voice of your own.
Why? Because it’s yours. The voice is a part of what makes your books unique. It’s often been said that if you give a hundred writers the same story outline, you’ll get a hundred very different stories, and a big part of this is down to voice. Even following the same story beats, voice will lead to different stories.
This takes time. After around twenty books I’m starting to understand my voice—and as I learn more about the craft of writing it’s changing. Or maybe I should say it’s refining. The voice is becoming more polished.
I’m never going to write beautiful, flowery prose—at least, not comfortably. That’s not part of my voice. I’m more likely to use sentence fragments. I also use a lot of em-dashes (those things that are supposedly a sign of AI writing).
Beyond the writing, every writer approaches marketing differently too.
This is something of a pain-point for me. I’ve tried all kinds of things—content marketing, Amazon ads, Facebook ads, BookBub ads. I use reader magnets and promo sites. I’ve attempted social media, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m even more of an introvert online than I am in the real world. I work best with words, so video-based social media simply doesn’t appeal to me, and I struggle to get enthused over something like TikTok. But using words has its own problem—I plan what I want to say. On any social media with fast back-and-forth (like Twitter/X), by the time I’ve wrangled my thoughts into something cohesive, the moment has passed.
So social media isn’t going to be a bedrock of my marketing. It is for others, though. Some have had their careers explode through TikTok. Others have mastered ads. Some sell the majority of their books at conventions, or through their own on-line stores.
Everyone is different. Everyone has a way of working and a philosophy that aligns with a particular marketing strategy. I’ve yet to find my niche, but I have to believe it’s out there.
And, as with that tricky route where I watch multiple climbers succeed but can’t emulate their styles successfully, it’s going to take time. And effort. I’ll only find what works for me after discarding what doesn’t.
There are always problems to overcome.
And sometimes, the problem isn’t where I think it is.
In most well-set bouldering problems, there will be a particular move or sequence that is the crux—the hard part. It’s the point where most climbers will struggle. We’ll try different strategies for getting past the crux—twisting to the right instead of the left, using a dynamic move, or using a toe-hook.
This can work. But sometimes the problem lies not in the crux itself but in the approach. Imagine we work on the crux in isolation, and solve it when we use our right foot on a certain hold. But when we start from the ground, we end up with our left foot on this hold. So, to solve the crux in context, we need to reassess our approach.
This is true in writing as well. If a particular climax (of the story or the scene) doesn’t land, there’s a problem. Do we need to work on the writing at the climax itself, or is there something we’re missing earlier?
Imagine we have an apparently hopeless situation, but our hero saves the day with a particular piece of equipment. If this equipment appears from nowhere, the reader will feel cheated (and rightly so). So, we need to go back and mention this equipment earlier.
There’s a concept often called Chekov’s gun (guess which famous classic author it’s normally attributed to?) that says if a gun is on the mantelpiece in the first act, it should be used in the final act. In reverse, if a gun is used in the final act, it should be on display in the first act. So, to solve our problem of the amazing appearance of a particular piece of equipment, we have it appear earlier.
But what if the issue is in the emotional punch of the climax? As it stands, the punch falls short. This might be in the writing of the scene, or it might be a case of not building to the climax adequately. Maybe we need to have a similar scene earlier, but one where the hero fails. Or we need to add back-story that lets the reader know, in advance, why this climax hits the hero so hard.
Combining this with writer voice, is the climax failing because it doesn’t work in our style? Maybe we should let the scene rest for a while and work on our craft. Maybe we’re simply not ready to attempt that kind of climax, just as my toe-hook is not yet strong enough to get past problems that require this technique.
There is always a solution. It might be at the crux or climax. It might be in the lead-up. Or it might be a case of working on technique and skills before making another attempt.
This brings us to another aspect of progress in both climbing and writing—we only know what we know. I’ll look at that, and the differences between knowing and doing, next time.
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 