Crossing Scary Bridges by Pamela Bennett

Cleaving the water’s flow like shards of stained glass, russet, bronze and scarlet leaves collected in the rippling creek. Caught around rocks and sticks, pointed leaf edges trembled in the current, barely six inches from my hiking boots.

So why was I considering stepping into the creek to soak those hiking boots?

Because the bridge over that creek raised its cantilever concrete slabs, taunting me as it towered over the creek along the Gorge Trail to Old Man’s Cave.

It was a beautiful autumn day in the Hocking Hills of Ohio. Walking under a tall canopy of hickory, oak and maple trees brought sparks of color spinning down with every errant breeze.

Every burst of red, gold and orange brought a smile to my face, until I saw that bridge.

My husband insisted the bridge did not “tower” over anything, in fact it is considered a “stepping-stone crossing” and the drop below is less than my height. As an architect, he admired the bridge, called it a “sculpture” and scampered across it with glee.

I said, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

The beautifully cantilevered concrete slabs started low, then went higher, too high in my estimation. But the important, inescapable drawback was the absence of any railing, despite its widely spaced “pedestal abutments.” They were too widely spaced to make my trembling legs believe I would stay upright and steady as I walked across with nothing to hang on to.

Yes, I’m afraid of heights. And no, the heights do not have to be that high. My mind just has to believe I’d be badly broken if I fell.

There are plenty of challenging trails in the Old Man’s Cave area, but all the other bridges have railings, and the frequent stone steps on the trail almost always have a rock wall or tree or something to hang onto.

Wading in the creek looked like the better option, but since the bridge was at the beginning of the trail, I’d be hiking a long time in soaked socks.

So, I stood on the first concrete slab and tried to convince my legs to move forward, one step at a time, knowing that if I waited too long, I’d be caught and wrapped in sheer panic like a buzzing fly in a spider’s web.

I finally whispered, “Sh-t, sh-t, sh-t!” all the way across and it felt like the longest walk of my life.

Did I feel more confident after I’d made it across? Not in the slightest. I felt completely traumatized by the bridge builders and griped to my husband that the design of the bridge was dangerous for a well-used trail, especially for young children.

Next time, I’ll wear my waterproof boots and wade right through that stinkin’ creek!

I did learn something from that adventure, though, as soon as I got back to my desk.

My fears and phobias are obviously not limited to bridges with no railings. A blinking cursor on a blank page can be almost as daunting.

My sister and I recently finished our literary suspense novel Twinless. Finally writing “The End” on the last page after years of hard work was utterly thrilling.

Then we worked with a wonderful editor for a few months to revise and polish several scenes until we were satisfied the novel was ready to submit. We sent off a query letter and 10 pages to our agency of choice, and now we are waiting…and waiting…hoping the agent will like those pages enough to ask for more.

Nearly every writing book I’ve read advises writers to “work on something new” during the querying process, to keep from obsessively checking email for a hopeful response.

I was determined to follow that advice, but it had been a long time since I’d faced a blank page and that terribly expectant, blinking, blinding cursor. I knew our characters in Twinless so intimately that they still lived in my heart and my thoughts. The novel has several points of view, but I grew so deeply aware of each character that I could hear each voice in my head as if it were my own.

My sister and I have notes and a rough premise for two more “twin” books, and yet that blinking cursor continued to mock and blink at me.

I gave up and got up from my desk several times, then turned to the books piled on my desk, hoping desperately that reading is the answer to every important question.

In Out of Silence, Sound. Out of Nothing, Something, Susan Griffin writes: “There is an inexpressible magic by which something comes from nothing, a miracle of creation that happens all over the world not just once, but again and again. As frequently as this conjuring act occurs, it never seems commonplace.”

Besides being a writer, I’ve embraced fiber art over the years, creating yarn tapestries where shapes like trees, creeks, flowers and rocks seem to grow “out of nothing” by weaving colorful yarns over and under threads wrapped around a loom.

Griffin writes, “The idea of a blank page can be daunting, frightening enough to stop you in your tracks. But fortunately, the blank page is not really where most writers begin. With a few exceptions, that page usually appears much further along in the process, when you are better prepared to meet the challenge.”

When beginning a tapestry, I first wrapped a solid color of yarn on my loom as the “warp,” then gathered colorful “weft” yarns to slowly grow the scene. I did not start with a sketch, as many tapestry artists do, but usually began with the “ground” of my scene, forming tree roots, moss, rocks and piles of fallen leaves, with every “over and under” pass of my shuttle through the warp.

I could give in to my fear of the blank page and avoid my computer as long as possible, or I could begin to type a few “threads” of the new story, maybe rough out a scene, or start with just one of the characters and experiment with his or her voice.

If I had waited too long to walk across that bridge at Old Man’s Cave, the resulting panic would have made it impossible to cross.

So, did I take my own advice and Susan’s and put something down about the new story on that blank page? Nope.

I started this blog and wrote about crossing scary bridges.

In essence however, by writing the blog, it feels like I’ve “crossed a bridge” by conquering my first blank page in years, so the next one won’t be as difficult.

I hope.

I’m still wading through that creek next time.