A bit of fiction about a strange experience with a famous writer. |
Many years ago, in one of my past lives, I asked my friend Ernie Hemingway, “Exactly what is the key to good writing?” Ernie didn't answer right away, which left me wondering if he didn't know the answer. After several seconds, he rose from his desk and walked out of the room. Strange behavior, for certain. At first I thought he might have been fed up with people asking him that question. Or maybe he was going to his private library to look it up in one of his reference books. While he was gone, I plopped into his antique armchair, as though I might magically absorb his talent. Nothing came to me immediately, so I leaned back and rested my feet on the edge of the desk, as I'd seen him do a few times. But no sooner had I done that than he sauntered back in from wherever he'd gone. I jumped out of the chair and waited for Ernie to give me a lecture about furniture abuse. But instead, he smiled and said, “Write what you think is good, and don't worry about what other people think.” I wasn't sure that advice would help, but Ernie was the expert, not me. I pondered his response, while he sat in his chair and fiddled with an old hourglass, watching the sand pour through the skinny part, as though he were timing the silence as he waited for my response. I didn't really have an answer, but I figured that least I owed him an acknowledgment that I'd heard him. So I opened my mouth, said, “Is that ….” and just like in my other lives, the scene around me disappeared, and I found myself floating in a heavy fog, wondering where and when I'd end up this time. |