I’m responding to a Daily Writing Prompt which, interestingly, resonates with a blog entry I wrote two years ago. The idea is to show some sort of homage, which I did, once; I could only show homage to Hemingway, because his simple, but profound, suggestions to writers formed a neural network in my brain that hasn’t been erased by time or experience.
- Book Review: The Paris Wife (capturesunshine.wordpress.com)
- Hemingway’s letters from the Paris period reveal a complex character on the verge of fame (sacbee.com)
- Ernest Hemingway Taught One of His Many, Many Cats to Drink Whisky (blogs.smithsonianmag.com)
- Hemingway . . . And a Six Word Story of Grace (darrellcreswell.wordpress.com)
- Europe’s Lighter Side: For Whom the Bloody Marys Toll (nytimes.com)
- Hemingway museum in Arkansas to sponsor Cuba trip (arkansasonline.com)
- Epic Quote of the Day: Ernest Hemingway (thebewildered20somethingwriter.wordpress.com)
I did something while in Paris last month that I actively rail against, and ordinarily deplore: I worshipped at two of the shrines associated with Ernest Hemingway. I struggle with the why of this, since it goes against everything I preach to beginning writers. My only excuse is that I was an English major three times over, and Hemingway said some very important things about writing, and so homage was due.
I deplore the worship of ‘the capital A’ author. I wish we didn’t put these people (usually, but not always, men) up on pedestals, then compare ourselves to them, telling ourselves their creativity is a unique act of divine inspiration we’re too ordinary to match, that The Author was stroked on the forehead at birth by a muse that will never visit us.
In other words, we take mere mortals and turn them into statues, dipped in the…
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