Writing Fiction: Climbing

Pulleys confuse me. How can it be, that you can hang three-hundred metres up a rock, pull on a thin rope in front of you, and somehow your body rises? Where, if you just stuck two hands under your bum and pulled, nothing would happen.

Thank god for them, though.

Some time back, I wrote about having been advised to rewrite my novel and imagined myself hanging from a rock, not knowing whether to carry on up, or lower myself down. I got back on the rock. Little pulley rises, until, I can today announce that I have finished the first draft – of the twelfth draft – of my novel.


The new chapters are a mess, of course. And god knows what I’ll find when I actually go back and read them properly. Some have been edited for writers’ groups, others are still in a raw state. I suspect the character will come in-and-out of focus, she will say things that no longer make sense. But I am hoping there will be nuggets for me to collect, passages to expand on.

My metaphor for success in writing has been the ladder in Snakes and Ladders. Perhaps I should exchange it for that of a pulley. Small rises against the rock and, in the end, a great distance covered.


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