In case you aren't familiar with this view, it is Striding Edge, a sharp ridge on the eastern side of Helvellyn, England's third highest peak, in the Lake District where I walked (or rather scambled and clung) this summer. It's judged to be Grade 1 in terms of difficulty because you don't have to use ropes. You do, however, (at least in my case) need nerves of steel. Lucky for me that the weather was clear and, while it was boiling hot enough to mean I had to carry three litres of water in my back pack each day, visibility was not an issue. I could see ever so clearly where I'd tumble to my death.
Where's the link to writing? I'm starting to promote my new novel. Some days it feels like balancing on a narrow seam of rock akin to walking Striding Edge. My publisher, Urbane, runs a slick media operation so I'm in good hands but until the book is published and I start getting reader's reactions, there's always that fear that I might fall on my face.
For me, writing is a reflective process that I only begin to understand once it’s concluded and the book is published. In the middle of writing, I’m a bystander to the lives of the characters and the action. Only when it’s on the page, do I appreciate what it is that I’ve been trying to express from the deepest part of my being. It comes from a rocky place... if I'm not stretching the analogy too far.