The Day I Failed at Climbing

Jeremy and I went climbing at Devil's Lake on Saturday with a group of friends.
Like an idiot I forgot my shoes.
I would have wrapped my feet in tape and climbed anyway, but a nice girl took pity on me and let me borrow hers. I was grateful, but still. Who drives two hours to their first climbing day of the year (not to mention the first blessedly warm day since November) and leaves their shoes behind? A moron, that's who.
The rock face was slippery smooth and tiny trickles of water leaked from the crevices at the bottom, coating my shoes and fingertips. A decent grip was elusive. I managed to get up by cramming my left toes in a narrow crack and standing up with all my weight on that foot while stretching my fingertips to the next hold, a narrow shelf high above my head. In this fashion I fought my way through to the next move, and the next.

If I didn't possess a decent sense of balance, I wouldn't have eventually made it to the top. I'm not one of those who can just jump to the next good hold and hang on while their feet scramble up after. I shift my weight instead of heaving it, searching for a way to use the jagged fragments scattered over the surface of the wall like pieces of a vertical puzzle. I enjoy this immensely.

Some in the writing community treat their craft the same way certain climbers rely on their strength instead of technique and creative balance (to my quiet amusement). Climbers sometimes find it possible to maneuver a route just by throwing their weight upward ("You'll make it! Just keep going UP! Try harder!").
Writers who bang around in such a fashion rarely make it very far before giving up and starting another project.
There's a rhythm to storytelling, but at the same time more than that-- like a hundred rhythms coming together and breaking apart at once in a given moment. Every sentence, every scene pulls double and triple duty to weave conflict, setting, emotion and perspective together with the right amount of tension as the plot moves forward. The adrenaline of an idea can drive you far, but forging a story requires something more: It requires everything you have.
I have moments of focus on certain walls, where somehow in spite of the awkward holds and my cramped, stiff fingers, I'm able to figure my way through it. Adrenaline fuels my creativity, and I learn new ways to use those tiny, crimpy holds. I walk away more focused than ever, and whadda ya know-- a little stronger. Hopefully that focus will help me remember certain vital items on future endeavors.
More likely, you'll soon be reading about The Day I Climbed with Taped Feet.