It has been reported here, in the UK, that Robert Dunning has retired at age 69. You’ve no doubt never heard of him – neither had I until I read the report. But Mr Dunning left university in 1967 to write a book.
The book was for his local authority, and was about local history. He made the news because he has retired after only completing 9 of its 22 volumes. The ‘cause’ is to be continued through his assistant.
What a Herculean effort!
With over 50,000 hours of research so far, we must ask if this book can ever be completed, for as the generations of assistants continue to pass on the ‘cause’, won’t they be writing slower than history is being made?
My theme for this post is, obviously, how far should we go in writing a book? Should a life’s work be exactly that – or, in this case, many life’s work? At what point should we say: this book is getting bigger than me?
My books are not that big.
I’m a short story writer myself – and I mean more than being just 5ft 4in tall. I find voluminous writing a bore and I think I’ve mastered the art of brevity. I’ve written dozens of books, with only two ever being published.
But am I being unfair? Could it be that I, too, am involved in a Herculean task like Mr Dunning, producing a body of ‘literature’ that is my ‘life’s work’? Only in my case I give each thread of this work a title, and a book, of its own.
© Anthony North, August 2007
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