I’ve been in a rut recently. Yes, I’ve been struggling with this space-opera project, but that’s only part of it. I’ve lacked motivation. I’ve been far too easily distracted. While I’ve made progress with both the main Unity book and the first Chronicles of Seraph story, that progress has felt far too slow.

I used to be more productive. Back when I grew serious about writing, I was able to release about three books a year. But since releasing the final ShadowTech book last year, I haven’t put out any new fiction. I’ve had the Tales of Dominions Kickstarter, but that was a collection of previously written stories.

I don’t feel good about this. I’m letting my readers down. I’m letting myself down.

So, why the lack of motivation? In large part, this is down to the day-job. It’s been growing increasingly demoralising over the last few years (things started going downhill in 2020, and there’s been no sign of an improvement). While I try to compartmentalise things‌—‌that’s work, so it shouldn’t affect my writing or my life outside work‌—‌everything’s connected.

But things are about to change. I now have a new job, starting next week. It’s longer hours‌—‌but back when I produced three books a year I was working similar hours. Maybe the lethargy has been compounded by too much free time, too many opportunities for distraction. So I’m going into this new job with a more focused mind-set. When I open my laptop for writing, that’s what I’ll do. I’m also investigating ways I can use my phone more effectively, so I can make better use of breaks at work and odd moments when I’m not at the laptop. Yes, I’ll still get distracted, but if I go in with a more positive attitude, and if I’m conscious of possible distractions, I’ll be in a better position to head them off.

Of course, there’s going to be a period of adjustment. I’ll be working different shifts, so I’ll have to let my body grow accustomed to a new routine. And this new job gives me free weekends, so more opportunities for important family time.

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With one change, it’s a good time to introduce another. As I mentioned before, I haven’t been as productive as I’d like. I’m spending more time editing and less time writing (first-drafting)‌—‌and while I enjoy editing it’s that earlier stage that I love.

So I need to produce more stories. And I need to get back to first-draft writing.

I have a plan.

I’m going to write a serial.

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Okay, hold on a moment. I’m struggling to get through those space-opera books, and I’m about to start a new job that will leave me with less free time‌—‌and I’m going to add another project?

It isn’t as stupid as it sounds. This serial is connected to the whole Unity universe. The story will focus on one of the main characters from the central Unity story. Writing this serial will help me understand both that character and their setting.

And I’ll be releasing a chapter each week, somewhere between one and two thousand words (so about fifteen minutes reading time?). I can write that many words in an hour. Another couple of hours for editing, and things don’t look too unrealistic.

Oh, and it’s called Grim Khonsu. It’s a blend of sci-fi and detective noir. I’ve wanted to produce something in this vein for a while now, writing a first draft of a novel a few years ago. Some of the ideas from that have ended up in the initial work on Unity, and others I’m using in this serial.

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Of course, this will involve a different way of working. I’m a plotter. I like to know where my stories are going before I start writing. But with a serial, I’ll be going one chapter at a time. Okay, I’ll have a few in the bag, and I have ideas about the direction of the story, along with the larger overview. But I don’t know the details yet. I’ll only discover them as I write.

Will this work? I don’t know. I’d like to think I’m sufficiently confident in my writing to pull it off, but I might write myself into all kinds of corners. And I’m committing myself to a new chapter each week. What if I’m ill? What if the story grows too cumbersome and I need to have a major rethink?

Problems to deal with if and when they arise. This is an experiment. It will allow me to get back to the thrill of first-drafting. It will allow me to put more fiction out there, giving readers something they’ll (hopefully) enjoy. And, because of its connection with my grand space-opera concept, it will enrich that story too.

It could all go horribly wrong, of course. And if it does, I’ll treat it as a learning experience.

But I’m quietly confident. Things are changing. I’ll be developing new routines, ones that should make me more productive, less prone to lethargy and distraction.

And I’m doing this in public. That’s scary. But it gives me accountability. I don’t like going back on my word, so now that I’ve committed to this, I have to keep it up. You’ll hold me to that, right? And as this story takes shape, as I add a new chapter each week, I’d appreciate any kind of feedback.

A change. An opportunity to start a new experiment. I hope you’ll come along for the ride.

More to follow…

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This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this space-opera project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

This is the second part of my short series on lessons I’ve learnt from climbing, and how they relate to writing. For the first part (a brief introduction), click here.

This time, I want to consider progress. While I enjoy both climbing and writing as activities in themselves, I also want to improve‌—‌climb harder problems, master new techniques, write increasingly engaging stories, learn how use words and punctuation more effectively, and so on.

There’s a notion that doing an activity regularly leads to progress, and this is true. We also tend to assume that this progress will be a reflection of the hours spent on that activity‌—‌work for a certain length of time, and reap a relative amount of progress.

But this isn’t always the case. In my climbing I’ve had months when I haven’t seen much progress, when I feel like I’ve plateaued. There are weeks when I slip back, when for no clear reason I simply can’t climb as well as I did previously. There are times when I put in the hours and I can’t see any tangible benefit.

Then there are times when things seem to fall into place, and I suddenly find my climbing improving faster than I expected.

Progress isn’t a straight line. It’s closer to a series of peaks and troughs, or steps. The general trajectory is upward, but along the way there are those plateaus and dips.

Disregarding (for the moment) the notion of ‘good days’ and ‘bad days’, I think this comes down to something similar to ‘levelling up’ in video games. As I work on trickier problems or new techniques, every fresh attempt involves a tiny amount of learning‌—‌my mind figuring out what to do, my body accustoming itself to different movements. These tiny micro-steps don’t initially show themselves, but they have a cumulative effect. Eventually, my mind and body figure out the particular move or technique, and I find success. This has knock-on effects when I attempt other, similar routes, and after the ‘plateau’ of those invisible micro-steps I suddenly jump up.

I’ll give you an example from another activity. Back when I worked in outdoor activity centres I got into kayaking. As I grew more confident I wanted to learn how to roll (using my body and paddle to right myself after a capsize without having to come out of the kayak). I was fortunate in being around others who knew how to do this, and who were willing to help me.

It took ages. For a long while I could understand how to roll a kayak, and knew what my body needed to do, but every time I went over I ended up floundering. It became frustrating when those patient friends repeated their advice, because I already knew it‌—‌it simply didn’t work for me. I couldn’t convince my body to do the necessary movements.

Until I could. All that struggling paid off, and I righted myself. And once I’d rolled once, I could do it again, and again. Yes, I still had times when it didn’t work, but more often than not I was successful. It was only a short while later I managed a hand-roll (a more advanced technique involving righting a capsized kayak without using a paddle).

This type of progress also applies to my writing, although it’s harder to see. But I can give you one example.

In much of my fiction I use close third-person perspective. This means that I’m describing events in the third person (’he opened the door’, ‘she collapsed onto the chair’), but staying close to a particular character‌—‌the scene is experienced through that character’s perspective.

In my older books, especially in early drafts, I used phrases like ‘she saw’ or ‘he noticed’‌—‌‘she saw the dark clouds approaching and felt a twisting in her guts.’ It’s not necessarily wrong, but it’s clumsy. If I’m writing in close third, then I’m already describing things from that characters’ perspective‌—‌anything visual I describe is by default something they see, because if they didn’t see it I wouldn’t mention it. So that ‘she saw’ is redundant. Worse, it can be distancing. A better way of phrasing that sentence would be ‘the approaching dark clouds twisted her stomach.’ It’s tighter, and it’s more intimate.

I don’t know when I learnt about this, but even once I understood it I still used ‘she heard’ or ‘he saw’ or other variations. It took many hours (years?) of writing before that lesson had gone from something I ‘knew’ into something I ‘did’. And even now, especially in early drafts, I find those phrases slipping in. But I’m far more likely to spot them in the edit.

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So I now understand that progress isn’t a straight line. But what about those times it seems to regress? What about those sessions at the climbing wall when I struggle with what should be easy routes? What about those times when the climbing doesn’t flow like it usually does?

This could be down to tiredness, especially after a hard shift at work. It could be down to illness‌—‌that cold I’ve been ignoring, or some other ache or pain. Maybe that niggling awkwardness in moving my shoulder is more serious than I realise.

Or maybe it’s the temperature or humidity at the climbing wall.

Climbing is as much mental as it is physical, so if I’ve got things on my mind (even if I’m not fully conscious of them), this can have an impact. Those unconscious thoughts distract me, and I can’t effectively concentrate on my climbing.

Or it’s something else. Who knows? As much as I’d like to be totally in control of everything that happens to me, I know there are so many known and unknown variables that there are always going to be ‘good days’ and ‘bad days’.

And I’ve learnt to not only accept this, but also to go with it. If I’m having a ‘bad’ climbing session, I don’t let it frustrate me. Instead, I stick to easier climbs, maybe working on ‘basic’ techniques. Or I take things slower, spend longer watching and talking to others, or extend the coffee break.

I had one of these sessions this week. I felt weaker than normal. A couple of problems involved high foot-placements, and I simply didn’t have the flexibility. I had done similar moves before, but not on this day.

So I did what I could (I still managed enough that I could class the session as a ‘success’). And those problems that I should’ve been able to get up but couldn’t? A large part of climbing is ‘reading the route’‌—‌mentally running through moves hold to hold. So when I come back to these problems next week, I’ll already have that mental preparation done.

It’s similar in writing. There are times when the words flow, when my fingers fly over the keyboard and the pages fill. There are days when the ideas for story improvements fall into place, or where the edits come together just so. And then there are the days when each sentence is a struggle. There are days when my mind too readily wanders, when it’s an effort to focus on the work.

The days of struggle are frustrating. But I can’t get annoyed at them. I have to accept that I’m not in the right frame of mind for writing or editing. Pushing through might get a few words on the page, but is that time well spent?

I usually have multiple ‘projects’ on the go at any one time. At the moment I have this space-opera series as well as the spin-off series. I also have other writing-related activities, such as these posts, or newsletters, or looking at different marketing options. I have back-cover copy to write, or I could revisit existing copy. I have podcasts I listen to. I have various courses I could go through again. I could spend some time trying to better understand advertising, or coming up with ad copy and images. Or maybe it’s time to ‘refill the well’, to read for inspiration, to see how other writers approach their stories.

There is always something I could be doing. So if the words aren’t coming, or if the editing is leaving my mind spinning, then I can turn to something else. It might not feel as if I’m making progress on a particular book, but I’m still working on my writing. And after taking things easier, I’ll feel fresher for my writing session tomorrow.

Sometimes, the most productive thing to do is to take a step back and rest.

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So, there are times when that progress plateaus, and there are times when it feels like I’m not only failing to improve but am going backwards. But, overall, I’m improving.

Since starting to push my climbing, I’ve made progress. Two years ago I worked on ‘red’ climbs (the walls I use have different colours for different grades), and by the end of the year could usually manage to complete about half the ‘red’ routes. A year ago I was regularly completing most, if not all, of the ‘reds’, and could occasionally manage problems in the next level, the ‘purples’. This year I’ve set myself the target of regularly completing two-thirds of the ‘purples’, and to complete a few of the ‘yellows’. Half-way through the year, I have managed just over half the ‘purples’ on the last couple of sets, and have managed one ‘yellow’. Okay, that yellow was undoubtedly soft for the grade, but it still counts.

Is my writing progressing?

If I look at ‘books published’ as a benchmark, then no. Last year I brought out the last couple of books in my ShadowTech series, and started work on this new space-opera. But we’re half-way through 2025, and so far only put out a box-set of the complete ShadowTech series, which didn’t involve writing anything new. I have an upcoming Kickstarter for another collection of previously-written stories (if you’re interested, click here). But I haven’t published anything new.

But this series (and the spin-off series) are a step up. I’m focusing on many of the lessons I’ve learnt over the past few years. I’m determined that these books will contain better writing‌—‌more engaging, with stronger character voice in both dialogue and prose. My rate of production might’ve slipped, but that’s because I’m focusing on quality of writing.

It feels like I’ve made several jumps forward recently, and I now need to consolidate that in these new books‌—‌a plateau in progress where I can put those lessons into practice.

That doesn’t mean I’m taking things easy, though. I’m still pushing, still striving to improve. But I’ll go deeper into that next time, when I look at practice in both climbing and writing.

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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.

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’.

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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’).

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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.

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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’.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

One of the many things that encouraged me when I first got into writing seriously was reading books and thinking ‘I could do better than that’. It wasn’t that the books I read were bad‌—‌many of them were fantastic, far better than anything I could’ve written overall. It was more that I’d spot a plot hole, or come up with a different (and, to my mind, better) solution to a problem the characters faced. Or I’d read a clunky paragraph, or a section of dialogue that didn’t sound right, or was too on-the-nose, and I’d see a different way of writing it. Little things, but because I not only spotted them but also saw how I’d ‘correct’ them, they inspired me to write for myself.

It still happens. I read widely, and some of the books I read aren’t great. I (usually) persevere to the end, seeing them as training exercises, as examples of what to avoid. But I also read books that leave me amazed, where the writing is incredible, where the world-building is incredibly immersive, where the characters come across as ‘real’.

Of course, books like this can be useful in my writing too. If I can figure out how another writer does things, I can learn from that, maybe incorporate those techniques into my own stories. But there are times when reading a great book drags me down.

It’s happened this week. I’ve been reading Arkady Martine’s A Desolation Called Peace, the follow-up to A Memory Called Empire. It won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but I was thoroughly impressed with the book. It still had the writing style of the first book (I suppose I’d call it ‘literary’, bordering on poetic‌—‌which is totally fitting for the plot), but what impressed me even more in …Desolation… was the interplay between the characters. Each character has motives, clear to themselves (sometimes) but hidden from others. There are all kinds of power-plays going on. Yes, the plot revolves around a war with aliens, but there’s far more tension in the inter-personal rivalries. And what struck me most was the subtlety of this, how it felt genuine rather than melodramatic.

This is something I’m aiming for with one of the story-arcs in Unity, and to see such a great example in Martine’s book left me feeling‌…‌despondent? I think that’s the word. There’s a mastery in Martine’s writing I can’t imagine myself achieving, or even coming close. To write something even half as good as this seems impossible.

If I hadn’t already written around twenty books‌—‌if Unity was my first serious writing project‌—‌I think I’d be tempted to give up. As it is, the doubts have risen‌—‌why would anyone read a book I’ve written when there are writers like Arkady Martine producing stories? And what about the other things I’m hoping to achieve in my story? How can my take on galaxy-wide civilisations infused with technology ever compare to Iain M Banks’ Culture books? And what about all those other great sci-fi writers‌—‌Hamilton, Baxter, Asimov, Herbert and so on? Am I a fool to even consider trying to write a large-scale space opera?

I have to believe that I’m not a fool. (Okay, I can be foolish, but you know what I mean.) So I have to do something about these doubts.

When I’m tempted to compare myself (severely inferiorly) to writers like Martine, there are a few things I need to remember

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First, I’m currently in the first round of edits of a very messy first draft of Unity Book One, and I’ve read the final, published version of A Desolation Called Peace. At one time, Martine’s book was nothing but an idea. It became a first draft, and then that draft was edited. I don’t know any details, but I’d imagine it went through many revisions, with input from editors and others.

I recently read Stephen Baxter’s Creation Node (another book that impressed me to the point of nudging those doubts higher in my mind), and in the back he lists everyone who helped bring the book to publication. There are over fifty names on that list. Fifty. Yes, some of those people (possibly the majority) were involved with publication rather than preparing the final manuscript (marketing, design, admin and so on), but books like Creation Node and …Desolation… are team efforts. So far, I’m the only person who’s been involved in my new book.

It’s like comparing a rough sketch to a painted canvas. It’s like comparing home-recorded noodlings to released music, recorded in top studios on high-end equipment, performed by professionals and engineered and mastered by experts.

Will my finished version of Unity match …Desolation…? Probably not. But it’ll be closer than it is at the moment.

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The next thing I need to remember is that I’m not Arkady Martine. I don’t write like her. And I need to see that as a good thing.

I’ll explain.

There’s a saying‌—‌give a hundred writers the same outline for a story, and you’ll end up with a hundred different stories. Every writer is different. Our personal experiences shape our writing, to varying degrees. Every writer has preferences, has strengths and weaknesses.

So, unless I’m trying to mimic her style, there’s no way I can write a book like Martine. And why would I? She writes stories in the way she writes them, and I write stories in the way I write them. And as I mentioned before, not everyone will enjoy …Desolation…. There are readers out there who prefer the way I tell a story. Maybe not many, but some.

Does this mean I can’t learn from Martine? Of course I can. But I can’t expect to be the same as her. Some writers can successfully mimic the style of others‌—‌an advantage for ghostwriters‌—‌but I don’t want to be someone else. I want to write the books I can write. And, as AI nudges closer and closer to being able to churn out readable‌—‌even good‌—‌stories, it’s important that, as a writer, I lean into what makes my writing unique.

What is my unique factor? I’m not sure, but it has to do with me, as a person‌—‌the way I write, the way I create stories, the language I use. It has to do with what I bring to my writing‌—‌my experiences, my thoughts, the way I see the world.

I want readers to enjoy my stories, but if they enjoy them because they were written by me, that’s even better.

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And this leads to the next thing I need to remember‌—‌I’m not writing for Martine’s readers. We both write sci-fi, so there may well be (should be?) some cross-over. But sci-fi is an incredibly broad genre. Even in space opera there is breadth. Some readers are drawn to fast-paced stories, others to intertwined character arcs. Some go wild for world-building, others get a buzz from snappy dialogue. Some prefer hard science, others lean towards a more philosophical take on science, and others don’t care if the science makes real-life sense so long as it works for the story.

If every writer is different, then so too is every reader. And there are far more readers than writers out there.

So I shouldn’t fall into despondency when I read great sci-fi. I should remember these three lessons‌—‌it makes little sense to compare my early drafts with another’s finished manuscript, every writer is different, and readers have differing preferences. If every book was a masterpiece in exactly the same way, why would anyone read more than one? It’s the differences that make every book unique.

Then I should consider what I can learn from great writers, what I can pull from other stories and adapt for my writing. I’m reading more and more as a writer (which I find makes reading more enjoyable‌—‌I can experience stories on different levels now), and this is something I need to develop, learning to tease out the linguistic tricks other writers use to make their work shine.

And if a book draws me in like Martine’s book has, it should serve as a reminder of the power of fiction. It should be an encouragement‌—‌reading can be an incredible experience. I might not reach anywhere near as many readers as Martine, but if I can reach some, then I can call my writing a success.

Although there’s always room for improvement.

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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.

About a month ago I wrote about figuring out names for my new series, something I always struggle with. But these aren’t the only names I need to work on. Stories use names all the time‌—‌for characters, for places, for companies and businesses, and (especially in tales that don’t take place in our contemporary world) for different objects. These names need to work in the story-setting, too. They can’t be so outlandish that they’re hard to read (unless that’s the point of them, in which case the reader will most likely skim over them). But make them too ordinary, too familiar, and there’s the risk of having thIn my day job it’s easy to tell if I’m working‌—‌I’m doing stuff. Most jobs are like this. If you’re sitting around staring into space, you’re not working. If you’re wandering around aimlessly, you’re not working. If you’re not at your desk or work-station, if you’re not in the building, guess what?

I used to think writing was like this. If I wasn’t at my laptop, fingers tapping away, then I wasn’t writing. If I was reading through a draft, I’d have my phone with me, and I’d be making notes‌—‌still working. But if I caught myself staring into space, I was procrastinating.

I’ve changed my mind on this. Things aren’t that clear-cut now.

Writing is a creative activity, and as such it involves perspiration and inspiration. There’s an active component‌—‌typing words, be that in planning, drafting or editing. There are all the admin and marketing tasks, which again involve me tapping away at my laptop. But there’s also a less physical component. To type those words, I have to come up with the words. The external presentation of the story has to follow the internal preparation.

When I look up from my laptop, gazing vacantly through the window, it’s because I’m thinking. Staring into space is what my body does while my mind is planning the next sentence, or trying to solve a plot issue, or working out how a particular character would react to a specific situation.

But it goes deeper than this.

Ideas‌—‌especially big ideas, the kind that solve taxing problems‌—‌always seem to come at the strangest moments. In the shower, as you’re about to drop off to sleep, when you’re out for a walk or washing up. The solutions come not when you’re actively thinking of the problem, but when your mind isn’t doing anything in particular. It’s almost as if all that conscious struggle was getting in the way. It’s almost as if the way to solve a problem is to stop thinking about it.

To a degree, this is true. We can’t sit back and expect great ideas to emerge on their own. We have to ponder problems. We have to actively seek solutions. We should investigate and research. But if the answer doesn’t come easily, then it is very likely we need to step back, to take a break and switch off.

The way I understand it, our subconscious mind is always working, deep in the background. Most of the time we’re unaware of it‌—‌it’s drowned out by our conscious thoughts. It’s only when we switch off that we become aware of our subconscious. Or it’s only when we stop thinking that our subconscious has the opportunity to be heard.

I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.

Writing and storytelling are creative activities. Yes, there are mechanical skills involved. Yes, story can be analysed, and we can use that analysis to structure better stories. Yes, there are concrete craft skills we can learn and develop. But ultimately it’s creativity that drives writing. Creativity has to be nurtured as much as it can be taught. It comes from deep inside. We take in content‌—‌examples of story through books and films, videos on the craft of writing, books on story structure‌—‌and the creative side of us uses this to do its magic. Which it does very effectively in our subconscious, working away while we’re otherwise occupied. Or while we’re doing ‘nothing’.

This means that the ‘work’ of writing is far more than sitting at the laptop, or reading previously written drafts. It’s more than sitting and thinking. The ‘work’ of writing is going on all the time, and it’s important to ‘switch off’ so we can listen to that deeper, creative side.

It’s also important to let the subconscious do its stuff. If we’re constantly consciously working, that’s taking resources away from our subconscious. It’s why so many writers extol the benefits of taking regular walks. This goes beyond the benefits to our minds of having a healthy body. Heading outside for a walk detaches our conscious mind from the writing, and gives us an opportunity to listen to our subconscious mind.

I’m currently editing the first draft of the first Unity book, I’m treating it as three separate stories at the moment, dealing with each in turn. But my subconscious mind is bouncing all kinds of ideas around. So as I read through one section, making notes on things needing changing, I ‘suddenly’ had an idea about a different section‌—‌my subconscious mind throwing its idea at me. I saw how a simple change in motivation could make this different section more relevant to the rest of the book.

It was a problem I’d noticed some time ago, and had been putting off actively working on it because I didn’t feel up to it yet (or maybe I was trying to avoid the hard work). But I knew about the problem, so my subconscious mind worked on it. And something‌—‌probably a turn of phrase in the section I was editing‌—‌triggered a potential solution. That input was exactly what my subconscious mind needed.

Another example of the subconscious mind in action‌—‌I’ve been revisiting loads of old short stories recently, from when I posted a story every two weeks on my website, and I was struck by how many of these stories had been drafted either on holidays or after coming home from holidays.

Why should this be?

Part of it is surely down to stimuli. When away from home we’re exposed to new locations, maybe different cultures and languages, different food and smells, an unfamiliar climate. These new stimuli can spark creativity. This could explain the origins of a story on virtual holidays, or a post-apocalyptic take on a seaside resort.

Then there’s the travel involved in holidays. New stimuli can become old very fast. Being stuck in a plane for a few hours, there’s only so much to do. So it’s not too surprising that the mind wanders. It starts to ask questions‌—‌what’s the deal with that lone passenger two rows in front? What if that family across the aisle are spies? What would an alien race think if they saw rows of people sitting in a tin can hurtling through the air? People-watching becomes a game of ‘what if…?’

But there’s another aspect to consider. Holidays are when we switch off. While I’ll still do something writing-related on holiday, I usually try to arrange things so that I’m not in the middle of drafting or a big editing phase when I’m on holiday. It means I don’t have to think about those big projects. It means I’m not under pressure to finish the draft or the edit.

And in switching off, I give my subconscious mind the opportunity to let me know what it’s been working on. I can consider all those ideas that have been bubbling away in the depths of my mind. I’m relaxed sufficiently to allow solutions to ‘appear’.

As I continue writing, as I continue working on new projects, new books, new series, I need to bear this in mind. I need to remember that the work of writing continues even when I’m not tapping away at a keyboard. I need to remember that the creative side of story-telling pulls from both my conscious and subconscious mind. So I should give it time. I should force myself to step back, maybe take more walks, alone with my thoughts.

Sometimes, the most important work we do happens when we’re doing nothing.

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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.