Rodger, you say I was a high school student in '58-'59...?
I was in 6th grade, I think, in '58, then in 1959 my parents
and I and my brother moved to Boulder when I was 12
and going into 7th grade. A little after that, I discovered the
Flatirons and began to try to be a climber. My parents rented
the first house on Pleasant off Broadway, about half a block from
the Sink. I was too young to go in, but I spent a lot of time
wandering that whole Hill area. I had a shoeshine kit. I sat
outside the Sink and looked for customers. I remember how the
sweat from the cooks' foreheads dripped onto the hamburgers. I
only started going to the Sink when my older buddies, such as Layton,
started meeting there, roughly in about 1961, as I recall.
Maybe I could go in but just not drink. Somewhere around this time
Gerry Mountain Sports was down the hill in a little shop at
the bottom of Broadway hill, just above Arapahoe street, and
Dale Johnson ran the shop. I went in and drooled over the gear
and pitons. Not too long after, if I recall, the Gerry shop opened
just a door uphill south from the Sink....
I ramble and digress. I guess that's what writers do.
I recall walking into the new Gerry Mountain Sports, just a door
up-sidewalk from the Sink, and the sales clerk greeted me with a
handshake. It felt as though he had a giant, unbroken egg yolk
in his palm. He seemed to enjoy lingering at that handshake. When
he let go, he showed me a very large blister
that took up his whole hand. He said he had been climbing the Third
Flatiron and started the second rappel (free) off the backside, down
the Falcon's Fracture. He realized he had forgotten to clip his
rope into his carabiner (which held his diaper sling together at about
his crotch area). He ended up going all the way down the rope in a
slide, with only his hands to hold him to the rope. He seemed
quite proud of that phenomenal blister on his hand.
Thank you so much, Darwin. I guess none of this, though, has been
an effort to "write," per se. I just ramble and digress, as I
said. I have started an actual book where I actually write and rewrite
and edit and create and recreate, and sometimes I get where I
want to go after about forty revisions, although sometimes it
happens on a pass.... As it stands, with over 400 pages of single
spaced writing now, I doubt I'll be able to finish it.... Not sure
how I would ever know how to select the final pages.
Editing can take up too much time.
I have to write a quick 400 to 800 word essay for my business five times a week and think one reread before sending it out is enough or I would spend all day trying to make it perfect with elaborations and links to the explanations. It's a style choice I guess but after hearing someone else read my stuff it really helped me clean the writing up.
Think like Hemingway, Kerouac, or Kesey, overtly edited material is difficult to read and seems forced. Let it come out naturally, reread for spelling or grammar errors then pass it on to the public.
Let it flow like you are sitting around a campfire.
Throughout my youth I found myself in so many situations I
didn't understand and had no idea as to the right way to respond.
I think I still suffer from this phenomenon, yet when on occasion
I get it "right," there is a tremendous sense of happiness and