I crossed the bridge just before sunset, heading towards Manhattan. The sky was perfect, a glow of reddish-orange, fading through the yellows to white, and and then up to a blue which spread all around. I must have used up about half a roll of film, taking what I hoped would be arty shots of the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, peeking out of the dusk. As I got to the second upright of the bridge, there was a girl sitting there, writing in her notebook. I walked past, and stopped a few yards further on to do the same. I realised how beautiful the girl was, and I made up my mind to go and talk to her. I was so far from home, and had nothing to lose except my self-esteem. The day had been perfect so far, and my mind was full of romance and possibility. I went back to her spot, rehearsing what I could possibly say to her. Something simple - maybe I could ask her if she knew anywhere good to eat near here. My heart was pounding. This wasn’t the sort of thing I did. But I was here in New York, and anything could happen. I half hoped she wouldn’t be there, to save me from myself. She wouldn’t be. I was right. The spot was empty, and night was falling quickly.
The secret to good writing is to use small words for big ideas, not to use big words for small ideas.