There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
Hemingway wrote that. I know this because I read almost every word he published. Most of them twice. I sipped each sentence. Drained the bottle. Held it upraised for that one last drop clinging to the rim, suspended in time until gravity provided sweet release.
Papa’s sentences were sparse. No wasted words. Pure prose poetry.
No coincidence that the template I picked for this blog is named “Hemingway.” No bells and whistles. Black ink on virtual white paper, hence the title.
Sometimes nice people ask me when I will write something here again. Flattering words. All kinds of things vie for attention these days, and I am sincerely honored that someone would make time to read a few paragraphs of my construction.
One reason for long dry spells is quite simple. Writing is hard work for me. A curious mix of God-given talent and practice. It must be daily. Most of the effort ends in a garbage can. Gluteus maximus planted firmly in chair, cursor blinking on white emptiness. Thoughts transferred from brain to keystroke on a beat-up old laptop computer with the “caps lock” key missing.
Sometimes the words come easy, but more often must be mined from solid granite with pick and shovel. Mostly gravel in the pile. Occasionally a nugget worth polishing and keeping.
“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
Hemingway also wrote that gem. How to begin anew.
In this quiet moment I choose to take his advice. Perhaps the simplicity of it will cling like flesh on dry bones.
“I just wrote something.”