Sometimes, of course, what I write is good for people, and that reminds me that this is a calling. And sometimes what I want a story to do is make somebody go, "Hey, that ain't right" and start asking their own questions. Because I believe literature is about raising questions, not offering answers.
It doesn't make it suck any less when I get it wrong for any given human being, though.
Being an artist in public is an exercise in endless humility.
All I can do, I guess, is fail better next time.
There was climbing today, and it was good. I felt strong. I came back at a 5.9 I climbed some time ago and did it--not as well as last time, but it's been a while. On the other hand, I did a really good job (for me) on a different 5.9+, one I've only climbed once. And I came back at my project 5.10, and while I did not quite send it, I got the top and the bottom clean, and the first half of the crux, which is a brutal three-move sequence. After trying the damned thing umpteen times and not even being able to figure out what I needed to do, I just cheated past the next move so I could try the top.
Back at it next time. Blah.
Then I did a couple of 5.8s, and we grocery shopped and came home.