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Over the last few years, as I’ve worked on improving both my climbing and my writing, I’ve seen many similarities between these activities. I’ve detailed my thoughts on this over the last few posts, but here’s a quick recap.
To bring this short series to a close, I want to consider a question. Why? Why do I climb, and why do I write?
The knee-jerk response is to say that I enjoy both activities. Fair enough, but I enjoy listening to music, and I don’t put in anywhere near the same effort in this as I do in climbing and writing.
So let’s go deeper. I became serious about my writing ten years ago. Why then? What caused this mind-shift?
At that time, I was struggling at work. I won’t go into details, but I felt like I had no control over the situation, and no clear way forward.
This was when I started writing more regularly. I had no big plan. I started from the kernel of an idea, and wrote to see what would happen.
My writing was something I could control. True, I didn’t know where the story was going. But there wasn’t anyone else dictating what happened. Ultimately, I was the one who decided.
Some years later I had a short novella included in an anthology called The Power Of Words, and I realised that this power lies not only in the words themselves but also in bringing them forth. Writing gave me something I lacked in my job. It gave me a voice, even if this writing was, at that point, only for myself.
I’d written before, but it reached somewhere deeper in me now. I continued, eventually finishing and then independently publishing novels.
And realised that writing was only a part of what being a writer was all about. Now that I had these books I needed to market them.
Okay, I didn’t need to. I could have put them up on Amazon and left everything to chance. But I thought it would be good to get something back from them—readers, and also money. At least enough to pay for the production.
So I set about learning marketing. I learnt about newsletters and websites, about reader magnets. I learnt about advertising and reader funnels, social media and reader tropes. And a whole lot more. I tried different tactics to help readers find and buy my books.
And while I have sold a few copies, and have had some positive reviews and ratings, none of my books have yet earned out. So far, this writing and publishing thing has cost more than it’s brought in.
Why? I don’t know. I try things. I follow what others have done. I try to analyse where things are failing.
And one thing I’ve come to realise is that there are no guarantees. I could do exactly the same as some successful writer, and I’d have wildly different results.
Because it’s not something I can control. Yes, I can tweak ads, or focus on targeting. Yes, I can write posts and newsletters. But when it comes to potential readers connecting with the ads, posts or newsletters, there is too much outside my control. There are a million other distractions. And if a potential reader does pay attention, are they in the frame of mind to buy, or to download a free book? If they download a book, will it become just another file, pushed down the TBR list in favour of a new, more exciting-sounding title?
I can control my input into marketing, but I can’t control what happens after that. I’m at the whims of reader attention, of various store and social media site algorithms.
Which could explain why I grew more serious about climbing over the last few years. With a vague despondency over the lack of marketing success, I needed a feeling of control. While the writing served this to a point, it was always tinged with the marketing side of things.
In most sports, you compete against others, either individually or as part of a team. There is a winner, and by default there are losers (those who didn’t win). But climbing is different. Yes, there are climbing competitions (even at the level I climb), but the competition is far more internal.
I think I’ve mentioned the friendly, co-operative atmosphere I’ve found at climbing walls. Whatever level you climb at, there will be someone to offer advice and encouragement. As a regular at the walls I climb at, I’m often there with other regulars, and we often work on a problem together. We’ll bounce ideas around, each trying something slightly different.
Usually, someone will reach the top first. But that doesn’t mean they’ve ‘won’, because the rest of us might reach the top using a slightly different set of moves. And even if you don’t reach the top, you’ve made progress.
And that progress isn’t down to others. Okay, there’s the advice. And the encouragement. But you take that in, and you let that feed into your efforts. Then, when the set of moves works out and you reach the top, you can justifiably say that you’ve done it.
And if you don’t? It’s not a case of someone else beating you to it, or someone else interfering (unless they do, in which case they’ll get thrown out). No, it’s simply that you’re not quite ready to solve that particular problem. Keep working at it, and maybe you will.
It comes back to control. Top out or not, it’s down to me. My climbing is under my control.
I’ve come to realise that having at least one activity like this—something controllable—is vitally important. We exist in societies, where we have to fit in with others. Our actions are so often dictated or influenced by others, even people we don’t know. We can control how we respond to situations (to an extent), but we can’t control those situations. So having some time each week when we are autonomous can give a respite from this.
It’s what I get from both writing (storytelling) and climbing. I get to be in control of things for a while. Yes, I get enjoyment from both activities (and there’s physical wellbeing connected with climbing, barring any injuries), but they both help remind me that effort can bring rewards. It might not feel like that at times—for instance, when another set of ads falls flat. But that’s because I haven’t found the right approach yet. It’s like the ‘everyone climbs differently’ thing—what works for one person won’t necessarily work for me.
So I have to keep on. To climb higher grades I need to work on technique and push myself. To write better books I need to work on craft. To sell more books I need to persevere with marketing, taking in more advice and lessons and trying different approaches until I find what works for me.
And maybe that is another lesson from climbing I can bring to writing. Everything else can be seen as tactics, or ways to improve, but behind it all is perseverance.
The final, and most important, lesson—don’t give up.
And that’s it for what climbing has taught me about writing. This series originally appeared on my free Substack—click here to subscribe. If you’re interested in the previous posts, after a short introduction I go into details on progress, my thoughts on practice, how individuality plays a role, and how knowing and doing are not the same.
This is the fifth 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, my thoughts on practice, and how individuality plays a role.
I sometimes wonder if my body and mind are operating in totally different spheres. Too often, I understand how to do something, and know in my mind exactly what I need to do, but my body simply doesn’t get the message.
This always leads to frustration when trying to master new techniques. I’ve mentioned heel-hooks before, that I could understand how to do the technique, but couldn’t convince my body to put this into practice. And I’ve mentioned learning to roll a kayak in a previous post. Again, I knew what I needed to do, but I couldn’t do it.
There’s a vast expanse between knowing and doing. Some of this is down to physical limitations. I know I need to put my weight over a high foot position, but I don’t have the flexibility to place my foot properly in the first place, and don’t have the movement in my hips to get over the placement. Or I understand how to use opposing pulls to keep myself on the wall, but don’t have the strength to support my weight properly.
There is a way to overcome these limitations, and that’s training. I can improve my flexibility through targeted stretching. I can improve strength through exercise. Yes, there are limits (I’m not getting any younger, and there are physical laws to contend with), but I can push closer to those limits.
This training is also mental. It sometimes feels like there are barriers to break down, barriers that are keeping me from performing actions I know I can do. It’s too easy to fall back into old habits, despite telling myself I need to stop. As I’ve said before, climbing is as much a mental activity as it is physical.
There are parallels in writing. I know I use certain words too much, but they still spew onto the page. I know I don’t need to spell out what my characters are feeling (because it’s better to show the effect of their emotions), but when I come to edit I spend far too long removing these redundancies.
But there are ways through. I did learn to roll a kayak. I’m confident with heel-hooks now. And while those writing problems still occur, I’m quicker to spot them when editing.
So, how did I bridge this gap between knowing and doing?
Practice. Focused practice alongside repetition.
This builds muscle memory, and I see examples of this pretty much every time I have a good session at the climbing wall.
If I’m on a hard route, I won’t reach the top on my first attempt. I might initially struggle to get off the ground. But I persevere. I try different moves, and eventually find what works for me. Then the next move stumps me for a while, and I go through the same trial-and-error routine until I find the technique that suits my way of climbing. And so on, move by move. After a few weeks I might even reach the top.
But here’s the thing—those bottom moves get easier. The holds don’t change, but I know what to do, and my body has adapted to this. Often, on a particularly tricky climb, by the time I’m working on upper moves I can speed over the lower ones. Through repetition my body has learnt exactly what to do, and I climb efficiently. Where those lower moves used to drain my energy, now I can breeze through them, leaving me with sufficient energy to tackle the higher moves.
Muscle memory. It works.
But there can be an issue here.
I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase ‘practice makes perfect’. It’s a lie. Practice makes permanent, not perfect. Practice a wrong move over and over, and it becomes ingrained (permanent). And maybe it works in the short term. But the technique is off, and the now muscle-memory-locked move can cause issues elsewhere. And to correct this less-than-perfect technique will require far more work than developing the correct technique in the first place. Correcting means unlearning then relearning.
Let’s give an example from writing. Like many writers, I use a keyboard. I did write my first ever attempt at a novel long-hand, but my physical writing too readily becomes a scrawl I struggle to read. I’ve tried dictation, but I think in words rather than sounds. I don’t want to have loads of physical paper around the place. I appreciate how easy it is to manipulate text files—copying them to ensure I have back-ups, as well as the advantages text files bring in editing.
Being the age I am, my schoolwork was all written by hand. I can’t recall ever seeing a computer at school. I had a Sinclair Spectrum at home—connect it to the TV, use a tape deck to load and save programs, and work with a massive 48K of memory! Oh, and type on squishy, small keys. Fast typing wasn’t a thing on the Spectrum.
When I did start using ‘proper’ computers, I didn’t have any kind of keyboard training. I found my way around the keys, progressing from a two-finger ‘look and stab’ approach, slowly using more fingers. Then, when I became serious about writing, I realised I needed to be more efficient.
I got some typing tutor software. I made a concerted effort to use the correct finger for each key.
But I’d already developed other habits. I could type ‘correctly’ if I concentrated, but it was usually slower than if I fell into a kind of mish-mash of self-taught and ‘proper’ typing.
I knew that ‘proper’ typing, if I could master it, would improve my typing speed. I also knew it would take a lot of work. Was it worth the effort?
Maybe. But how fast did I need to type? Yes, sometimes when writing the words flow. But often, I’ll tear through a sentence or two, then need to think about what comes next. Writing is as much about thinking as it is about getting words on the page. And my hybrid style was fast enough for my way of writing. Forcing myself to touch-type all the time would slow me down in the short term, and while it might make me faster over short bursts eventually, I didn’t think it would improve my overall writing speed.
So I’ve muscle-memoried my way into somewhere between permanent and perfect. It’s good enough for me. It’s fast enough to get my ideas out without too much delay. It’s full of quirks (I only tend to use the ‘shift’ key with the little finger on my left hand, very rarely with my right), but I do use all my fingers, and I use those bumps on the ‘f’ and ‘j’ keys to orientate my hands. I can type without looking at the keyboard, and fairly often without looking at the screen either.
It works for me.
Which, now I think about it, comes back to the individuality thing I mentioned last time. Everyone is different. There is no ‘right’ way of doing something.
But it’s worth trying to do things ‘correctly’. While I’ve accepted my particular take on typing, I’m still working on those too-common words. I’m still absorbing all I can on the craft of writing, focusing on new techniques and ideas. Slowly, I’m translating that knowledge into practice, and I know that my first drafts now are far superior to the drafts I started with on earlier books. Similarly, in climbing, I’ve incorporated techniques I’ve struggled with, and this combined with improvements in my ability to read routes means I’m able to flash problems that would have stumped me a couple of years ago.
It’s a slow process, though. And I’m fine with that. The improvements week-on-week might be so small I can barely see them (and I might have weeks when, for whatever reasons, I ‘slip back’), but on a longer time-frame I’m making progress. I’m taking in knowledge, and with focused practice I’m putting that knowledge into effect.
This brings us to the end of these lessons from climbing and how they relate to writing. Next time, I’ll sum up and take a quick look at why—why I climb, and why I write.
This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.
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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.
We did it! The Tales of Dominions Kickstarter reached its funding goal.
But if you missed out, I have you covered. I’ve set up late pledges, and I’ll leave them open for another day or so. Click here to see what it’s all about. But don’t hang around—when we hit the weekend, there will be no more late pledges, and no opportunity to get the special edition paperback or hard-cover of Tales of Dominions.
Click here to learn more.
It’s almost time to close the Tales of Dominions Kickstarter. After the end of the month, the collection will disappear for a good few months—and when it comes back, you’ll only be able to get the standard editions—none of the fancy exclusive stuff!
We’re close in time, and we’re also so close to funding. We can do this! If you’re not sure, pop over to kickstarter.com/projects/twiain/tales-of-dominions and see what’s on offer (including all the great add-ons, an opportunity to dive into my three sci-fi series at reduced prices). And if you know anyone who might be interested in some dark Dystopian thriller shorts and novellas, share this with them.
Don’t delay—you have the weekend and possibly another day or so, and then this opportunity is gone.
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 and a look at progress.
When the climbing wall has put up new problems, there’s a temptation to jump straight on them. But I try to be sensible. I’ll do a few easier climbs to warm up. After sitting in my car for an hour I need to stretch a bit. I need to get my fingers used to gripping holds again, my body used to twisting at strange angles.
I probably don’t warm up enough. Others spend time stretching on the mats, or have a quick session in the gym. At least I do something, though. And then I try those new routes.
But, over the last year, my attitude in those warm-up climbs has changed. I’ve been working on ‘deliberate practice’.
What do I mean by that?
Climbing easy routes doesn’t take much thinking about. I get on the wall, and I climb. The moves aren’t taxing, so I can climb fast.
But that’s not the best use of my time. It’s better if I climb with deliberation. With each move, I try to focus on what my body is doing. When I go for the next hold, I try to grasp it so that I don’t need to adjust my hand later. When I place my foot on a hold, I concentrate on its position, on the angle of my ankle, on how I’m using the rubber on my climbing shoe most effectively on any sloping edge. And as I move I think about my body position, concentrating on how this is helping me. Rather than stretching my arm for the next hold, can I twist my body to provide better reach? On overhangs, rather than relying on upper body strength, can I alter my body position and footing to provide better support?
Warming up this way, I get the same physical warm-up, but I also improve my mental game.
Sometimes I’ll take this further. I’ll stay on the ‘easier’ routes for longer, intentionally focusing on my technique. I might not get any new, harder problems ticked off during that session, but I’ll be in a stronger position to do so later.
Another part of this (and one that I know I need to improve on) is training away from the wall. This could involve using a gym (or gym equipment at home). It could also involve stretching and working on flexibility. I’ve never been particularly flexible, and as I get older this is deteriorating. So it makes sense to practice—to run through stretching and flexibility exercises at home.
So what does deliberate practice look like in writing?
There’s a saying that if you write 1000 words a day, you’ll have written a novel over a year. There’s this idea that every word written has to count towards that goal, that any words ‘thrown out’ are wasted.
But this isn’t (necessarily) true. 1000 words a day might give you a novel’s worth of words over a year, but it won’t necessarily be a good novel, or even a coherent story. Those words will need editing, will need wrangling into a structure, will need massaging to bring out emotion.
Writing, like any activity, improves with practice. Yes, writing story after story, novel after novel, will lead to improvement. But what about training? What about writing that isn’t directly towards the current work-in-progress?
One of the podcasts I regularly listen to, Writing Excuses, always gives homework at the end. Although I rarely do the tasks, thinking about them helps. They might suggest writing the same scene from three different points of view, or trying to write a description without using adjectives, or write a chase scene using only dialogue.
I’ve written short stories that have stemmed from this kind of deliberate practice. Actually, short stories (and flash fiction—stories under 1000 words) are ideal for this. I wrote a hundred shorts between 2015 and 2020(ish), and I believe this exercise helped improve my writing immensely. I forced myself to work on new techniques, and getting every story under my self-imposed word-count helped develop my editing skills.
Deliberate practice in writing also involves reading with intent. If I read a book that doesn’t grab me, I’ll take a step back and attempt to figure out why. Similarly, with a book that grabs me, I’ll want to know how the writer pulled that off. I might stop reading for a moment, maybe go back a few pages, and analyse what’s happening.
Then there is training. I’m better at this in writing than in climbing. I’ll read books on the craft of writing, on marketing and advertising, on mindset. I’ll listen to podcasts (and try to glean as much as I can from them). I’ve taken courses in the past. I subscribe to various newsletters (although they do tend to get buried in all the other emails, so I don’t pay as much attention to them as I should).
Deliberate practice might lay the groundwork for progress, but that groundwork has to be built upon. And that’s where pushing forward comes in.
Currently, at the climbing wall I use, I’m concentrating on the ‘purple’ routes. I’m getting to the stage where I regularly manage about half of the purples, and I’m hoping to improve on that over the rest of the year.
There’s a part of my mind that likes things tidy. It’s the way I’m wired. I like to have one thing completed before moving on to the next. So, there’s a part of me that says, “Get the purples under your belt, and then you can move on to the yellows.”
This also involves insecurity. If I can’t complete the purples, then I’m clearly not good enough to climb yellows.
Which isn’t necessarily true. Climbers come in all body shapes and sizes. Different climbers have different strengths. There might be a yellow route that plays to my strengths—just as there will be purples that rely on techniques I can’t manage yet. Some purples I flash (succeed on the first attempt), but some ‘easier’ routes (reds and blacks) give me problems, resulting in many attempts.
And even if the yellows are ‘too hard for me’, that doesn’t mean I can’t try them. Maybe I’ll only manage a few moves (or even struggle to get off the ground), but by pushing myself I’m improving.
Which is why I’ll give them a go. I might not expect much, but sometimes I’m surprised. A few weeks ago I managed to reach the top of a yellow.
That doesn’t mean I can climb yellows—I’m sure it was easy for the grade, and I caught it in that perfect zone between warming up and feeling too tired. But it encourages me to keep trying.
Because we don’t get anywhere without trying, without pushing ourselves.
And the same goes for writing.
Again, I’ve used short stories for this—trying new ideas, experimenting with different styles. Some of these attempts work out better than others, but even the failures teach me something.
I want to improve as a writer, and that means pushing myself. I’m doing that with this space-opera series. It’s big, and maybe I’m taking on too much. I get the impression it’s going to take far longer than I anticipated—but that’s okay. I’ve pushed myself, and I’ve learnt. With what I’ve learnt, I can adjust my expectations while still pushing.
But what does ‘pushing’ mean in writing? Does it mean using a larger vocabulary, or writing increasingly complex stories, or using intricate prose with long, run-on sentences? Maybe, but writing like that asks a lot of the reader. I want my books first and foremost to be enjoyable. I want them to provide an entertaining escape. I don’t want to force a reader to struggle through dense writing.
No, I’m pushing to have a stronger emotional pull in the writing. I’m pushing to use words more effectively. I’m pushing to create believable worlds and relatable characters. I’m pushing to have my stories immerse the reader.
Which is tough. And if I keep practising (deliberately) I might get there. But I’ll get there sooner if I balance the deliberate practice with some pushing.
And this is my final thought on this area—progress requires both steady, deliberate practice and hard pushing. It requires moments of deep reflection and times of wild experimentation. It requires work on technique as well as periods of flow and abandonment.
As with so much in life, progress is about balance. If I don’t deliberately focus on technique, when I push myself I’ll readily slip back into old, predictable habits. And without pushing to try harder things, that deliberate practice will be nothing but a kind of meditation—enjoyable for itself, but ultimately serving no purpose.
In my last post, I described progress as a series of steps rather than a smooth incline. The push and pull of deliberate practice and pushing hard are yet another aspect of this.
But it’s different for everyone. And problems are not always what they seem to be. Next time, I’ll tell you how I’ve come to understand this about climbing, 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.
With about a week left on the Tales of Dominions Kickstarter, we’re close to funding. A huge thank-you to everyone who’s pledged so far.
But did you know that you can get more than Tales of Dominions? At every reward tier (including the ‘just because…’ £1 tier) you have the opportunity to buy add-ons. These include the following:
The complete ShadowTech series—all seven novels, at a reduced price
The complete Shadows trilogy—for the price of a single book
All nine novels in the Dominions series—for only £15
And that’s not all…
Nexus is a collection of one novella and two short stories. Previously published in various anthologies, these tales have been re-edited, and are now presented with author notes and illustrations. Nexus is a Kickstarter exclusive, and is available in both ebook and paperback.
Intrigued? Then click here to check out the Tales of Dominions Kickstarter.
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.
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.
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.
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 