In this ongoing series, we ask SF/F authors to describe a specialty in their lives that has nothing (or very little) to do with writing. Join us as we discover what draws authors to their various hobbies, how they fit into their daily lives, and how and they inform the author’s literary identity!
Fifty feet up, my hands start to shake. It is raining gently, and all around are mountains, helmeted with snow, soft in the valleys. But I don’t see them. All I see is the rock. One hand is wedged in a crack, bleeding under the thumbnail, and my other hand is folded onto a nub, just enough to give my first three fingers purchase.
There’s a bolt—a metal loop bored into the rock—right in front of my face.
I am about to fall.