my head is spinning. i have become enamored with an unlikely mentor. papa hemingway has spent the better part of my morning capturing my heart.

when i was at hemingway’s house i bought a few books. the one i am currently reading is ‘ernest hemingway on writing’…and i’m surprised to find that his thoughts & mine are often the same. i have great respect for old ernest & his crafty ability, but i never anticipated sharing so many similar thoughts with a perpetually drunk misogynist. perhaps i should’ve been born a male?

some gems from old e:

‘writing is something that you can never do as well as it can be done. it is a perpetual challenge and it is more difficult than anything else that i have ever done-so i do it. and it makes me happy when i do it well.’ (i think i said this exact thing last night…and reiterated it this morning)

‘do you suffer when you write? i don’t at all. suffer like a bastard when don’t write, or just before and feel empty and fucked out afterwards. but never feel as good as while writing.’ (it’s like he pulled the thoughts right out of my head)

‘there is no future in anything. i hope you agree. that is why i like it at a war. every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. i have to write to be happy whether i get paid for it or not. but it is a hell of a disease to be born with. i like to do it. which is even worse. that makes it even worse. that makes it from a disease into a vice. then i want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. an obsession is terrible. hope you haven’t gotten any. that’s the only one I’ve got left.’ (this is the one that cemented my love for my dear ernest. i couldn’t have said it better myself…though i shall try.)