“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”*

The end.

Writing Worriment

Or it could be the end.  Those thoughts of the magnificent George Orwell are precisely what I’ve been feeling this winter - exhausted, struggling mightily, and inflicted with the troubling illness of self-doubt.  

Ever since I was a wee tad (and yes, I know that’s hard to imagine), I’ve loved to write - mostly journal entries which have been at times copious, absurd, sometimes sappy, juvenile and daft.  Until Oprah, my notebooks were called diaries but now I’m so much more sophisticated (NOT!) - I have journals. Also, saved in various computer files, there is a goodly collection of short stories I've written.

I have written (and finished, and printed) two books, “Anatomy of a Barn” and “Wildflower Whimsy” - both mostly photo books with my own images.  Both books came together quickly, easily and enjoyably.  Encouraged by that success, I’ve begun a third book, about bridges this time.

“The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.”**

I love bridges.  A lot.  Especially footbridges.  Indeed I have about 100k bridge images.  Last winter I began to curate my favourite photos/bridges and to write a book about them.  I got stuck.  This winter I started again. From scratch. Chief amongst my problems is organising the completed pages.  What order should the pictures/tales go in?  Does it matter?  Do I have enough pages?  Too many pages?  Am I obsessing?  URGH!  At first my friends would ask if I was still working on the bridge book, and they’d smile their encouragement. Nowadays, the smile is more of a sneer and the comments are some version of, Still writing that bridge book? I also hear, Well after all, you’re not a real writer, are you? And, as I’m unpublished, of course that is true, but still..  It does hurt, I’ll be honest.

I have signed up for (and completed) three writing courses and, ‘though the last one promised it was for both fiction and non-fiction writers, that bit was a lie - it was all about character development, plot twists, metaphors…. 

I am passionate about bridges and about my bridge book. I want anyone who reads it to understand my love of these artistically and structurally amazing fabrications which defy imagination and gravity.  I want them to feel and share my exuberance and joy, and to recognise the enchanted world of make-believe and let’s pretend of our bridges. My fear is that I’m writing tales that are vapid, trivial, and boring.  I’m worried that my words are failing to describe my emotion and rapture.

I don’t know what’s wrong - I can’t seem to get the text just right.  Too many words?  Not enough words?  Wrong words?  Arrrrrrrrrrgh!

Writing Bridges: Curves, Angles, Imagination has been a labour of love.  Both times.  When I started this project, I didn’t spare a thought for what my images and writing might become, I just knew I wanted to record as many details as I could about these beautiful structures. I may not have the gift of telling stories, I’m not even sure I have the skills to write sufficiently interesting and animated tales about bridges — I just knew that it felt right, that the time was right. My bridge tales come directly from my heart and my imagination.  I just hope I have the fortitude and competence to get this project across the finish line which, for me, would be taking it to the printer.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”***

’Til next time, y’all…

Curves Angles Imagination

*George Orwell
**Philip Roth
***Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums.