Dear Mr Hemingway…

It's nothing, apparently
It’s nothing, apparently

I’m on a bit of a Hemingway trip.  I say ‘trip’ because it sounds more hip and less insane than, let’s say, the word ‘obsession’ which in all fairness would be a more accurate description.

Put it this way, if he were alive right now and there was some kind of threat detected which was associated with him, the authorities would surely come a-knocking on my door only from the amount of times I’ve typed his name into my google browser this week.

Put it another way.  If he were alive right now there may or may not be a restraining order out against me but I would be 300 yards away with a foghorn and a megaphone saying, “Mr Hemingway, first of all let me say that I love you.  I know that you hear that a lot but, no, I actually love you.  Anyway, getting to the point, [parenthesis: yes, this is all still me talking from the megaphone 300 yards away from EH] how do you write so beautifully?  The words are magic and well, beautiful.  See, there, I can’t even think of a word I’d rather use than beautiful…”

To keep this story realistic, by this point the police would have surely escorted me away and so I would continue with the remainder of what I wanted to say to Hem from the comfort of my holding cell using paper and pencil (because obviously I wouldn’t be given a pen as this could be used as a weapon).  My note would probably go a little something like this: –

“So, hi, Hem, it’s me again.  As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, I am in awe of your skills, man. I’m trying to delve deep into your mind and understand how you did it.  How you put words together so.  Sure, you’re not the only person with great lyrical talent but the way you’ve spoken about writing (even though you say we shouldn’t really speak about writing, so, shhhh), the love of it and the understanding of it just makes me want to put your brain in a jar and look at it with a microscope.  It quite frankly leaves me dumbfounded and well, this is why I’m stalking you.  Cut me some slack.

I’ve been googling the shit out of you recently and have read all the interviews but, boy, what I wouldn’t give to be able to ask you myself. Words, paper, together, beautiful, how? What was it like in the elite club in Paris with all those writers and artists?  Did you really write “a bitch is a bitch is a bitch,” to Gertrude?  High five, bro!  Could you ever imagine how big you would all become?  Did you know that now we have people who are famous for doing nothing?  Yeah, there’s this show called Keeping Up With The Kardashians… well I can’t explain it really… put it this way; there are no ethics anymore.  Don’t act surprised, ‘Mr ‘been married 4 times and cheated on ’em all’!

Oh, there’s a new film out about you by the way.  Clive Owen is you.  They could have done worse, don’t pout.  Who did you want, Brad Pitt?  But Nicole Kidman plays Gellhorn.  I know, right? Score!

The other effect reading your writing and reading about your writing has had on my self-esteem is it has completely shot it to shit.  I can’t say that I’ve ever felt more of a fraud in my life and self-doubt is running amok inside my 5ft2 frame.  Self doubt has always been prominent like a poison that seeps in drop by drop as if from an IV drip but overloading on information about you this period has just been a self-doubt overdose from which I fear I may never recover.  No, I’m not going to kill myself; what are you like?!

Finally, “For Sale.  Baby shoes.  Never worn.” Really?  Really? You’re killing me, man! You’re really killing me.

Anyway, my pencil is running out so I’ll have to leave it here for now.  Just know that you make me love words more than I ever thought I could and I think I should thank you (even though you’re a cheeky bugger).

Thank you.


You know where to find me.
You know where to find me.

5 thoughts on “Dear Mr Hemingway…

  1. Saynday's Elusive Muse says:

    Yes, to be drawn into a particular style of prose is great. I like how you capture the obsession qualities with adoration. Well done. Thank you.

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