An "old" writer's thoughts on writing

Ernest Hemingway at work in Africa during his 1953-54 safari

Ernest Hemingway -- relevant in the 21st Century

Years ago, 1958 to be exact, Ernest Hemingway (love him or hate him) was asked the following questions by an interviewer from "The Paris Review:"

PR: "Could you say something of this process (of writing)? When do you work? Do you keep to a strict schedule?"

Hemingway: "When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through."

PR: "Do you do any rewriting as you read up to the place you left off the day before? Or does that come later, when the whole is finished?"

Hemingway: "I always rewrite each day up to the point where I stopped. When it is all finished, naturally you go over it. You get another chance to correct and rewrite when someone else types it, and you see it clean in type. The last chance is in the proofs. You're grateful for these different chances."

PR: "How much rewriting do you do?"

Hemingway: "It depends. I rewrote the ending to 'Farewell to Arms,' the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied."

PR: "Was there some technical problem there? What was it that had stumped you?"

Hemingway: "Getting the words right."

PR: "Is it the rereading that gets the 'juice' up?"

Hemingway: "Rereading places you at the point where it has to go on, knowing it is as good as you can get it up to there. There is always juice somewhere."

PR: "But are there times when the inspiration isn't there at all? "

Hemingway: "Naturally. But if you stopped when you knew what would happen next, you can go on. As long as you can start, you are all right. The juice will come."

PR: "Thornton Wilder speaks of mnemonic devices that get the writer going on his day's work. He says you once told him you sharpened twenty pencils."

Hemingway: "I don't think I ever owned twenty pencils at one time. Wearing down seven number-two pencils is a good day's work ...."

PR: "Is emotional stability necessary to write well? You told me once that you could only write well when you were in love. Could you expound on that a bit more?"

Hemingway: "What a question. But full marks for trying. You can write anytime people will leave you alone and not interrupt you. Or rather you can if you will be ruthless enough about it. But the best writing is certainly when you are in love. If it is all the same to you I would rather not expound on that."

PR: "How about financial security? Can that be a detriment to good writing?"

Hemingway: "If it came early enough and you loved life as much as you loved your work it would take much character to resist the temptations. Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure only death can stop it. Financial security then is a great help as it keeps you from worrying. Worry destroys the ability to write. Ill health is bad in the ratio that it produces worry which attacks your subconscious and destroys your reserves ...."

PR: "How complete in your own mind is the conception of a short story? Does the theme, or the plot, or a character change as you go along?"

Hemingway: "Sometimes you know the story. Sometimes you make it up as you go along and have no idea how it will come out. Everything changes as it moves. That is what makes the movement which makes the story. Sometimes the movement is so slow it does not seem to be moving. But there is always change and always movement."

PR: "Is it the same with the novel, or do you work out the whole plan before you start and adhere to it rigorously?"

Hemingway: "'For Whom the Bell Tolls' was a problem which I carried on each day. I knew what was going to happen in principle. But I invented what happened each day I wrote ...."

PR: "Do you make a distinction -- as E. M. Forster does-between 'flat' and 'round' characters?"

Hemingway: "If you describe someone, it is flat, as a photograph is, and from my standpoint a failure. If you make him up from what you know, there should be all the dimensions ...."

PR: "Then you enjoy reading over your own books -- without feeling there are changes you would like to make?"

Hemingway: "I read them sometimes to cheer me up when it is hard to write and then I remember that it was always difficult and how nearly impossible it was sometimes."

PR: "How do you name your characters?"

Hemingway: "The best I can ...."

Hemingway's remarks about having a preconceived story as he writes vs. making up the story as he goes along are intriguing, as are his concepts of distinguishing real, multi-dimensional characters from 'flat' characters. The admission that he reads his own stories to "cheer" himself when fresh writing is not going well offers a psychological insight.

And, in an even more personal sense, it absolutely fascinating to read Hemingway's comment in response to the question about only being able to write well when he is in love. I can understand why he declines to "expound on that."

A novel, a poem, a song -- a breath of magic

Two of these three editions of "Time and Again" by Jack Finney have been around for a few decades, traveled widely and been read a number of times. The copy on the right is a recent commemorative edition issued by the Science Fiction Book Club.

Literature, you say? According to whom?

Science fiction writers traditionally have been held in low regard when compared to "real writers." One who broke out of the mold, largely due to his overall versatility as a writer and to the uniqueness of a particular novel, was Jack Finney.

Finney specialized in thrillers and works of science fiction. Two of his novels, "The Body Snatchers" and "Good Neighbor Sam," became the basis of popular films, but it was "Time and Again" that won him a devoted following. The novel, about an advertising artist who travels back through time to the New York of the 1880s, quickly became a cult favorite, beloved especially by New Yorkers for its rich, painstakingly-researched descriptions of life in the city more than a century ago.

Finney's first novel, "Five Against the House" (1954), told the story of five college students who plot to rob a casino in Reno. A year later, he published "The Body Snatchers" (later reissued as "Invasion of the Body Snatchers"), a chilling tale of aliens who emerge from pods in the guise of humans whom they have taken over. Many critics interpreted the insidious infiltration by aliens as a cold-war allegory that dramatized America's fear of a takeover by Communists. Finney maintained that the novel was nothing more than popular entertainment. The 1956 film, "Invasion of the Body Snatchers," has been remade twice.

Finney first showed an interest in time travel in the short- story collection, "The Third Level," which included stories about a commuter who discovers a train that runs between New York and the year 1894, and a man who rebuilds an old car and finds himself transported back to the 1920's.

He returned to the thriller style in "Assault on a Queen" (1959) and tried his hand at comedy in "Good Neighbor Sam" (1963), a novel based on his experiences as an adman, played by Jack Lemmon in the film version.

With "Time and Again" (1970), Finney won the kind of critical praise and attention not normally accorded to genre fiction. Thomas Lask, reviewing the novel in The New York Times, described it, suggestively, as "a blend of science fiction, nostalgia, mystery and acid commentary on super government and its helots." Its hero, Si Morley, is a frustrated advertising artist who jumps at the chance to take part in a secret project that promises to change his life. So it does. He moves into the Dakota apartment building by Central Park West, travels back to New York in 1882 and experiences the fabulous ordinariness of a bygone age: Its trolleys, horse-drawn carriages, elevated rail lines and gaslights. Later, Finney published a sequel to the novel, "From Time to Time."

"Time and Again" probably is my favorite novel, period, and I re-read it every few years. I just finished it again a few weeks ago, while living in the "Old Town" section of an European city, Warsaw, Poland, whose people treasure its history and its heritage -- in the very least, as much as those who live in and love New York City.

This tale completely captures the imagination, offers significant, accurate, historical detail and presents a range of interesting characters whose emotions run the gamut of human experience. It might not rise to the aesthetic levels of "Ulysses" by James Joyce or to the literary heights of "The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway, but I am not certain I have found any novel that does accomplish those things for at least the past decade or two or three. Have you?

"Yesterday is History" by Emily Dickinson

Yesterday is History,
'Tis so far away --
Yesterday is Poetry --
'Tis Philosophy --

Yesterday is mystery --
Where it is Today
While we shrewdly speculate
Flutter both away

The return & the next departure

This is a photograph of the near-full moon (with a bit of reflected double image) taken a few days ago from the living room window of the townhouse where I now (temporarily) reside. Have you ever looked out over a more dismal, boring, innocuous view? Yet, this is the only type of setting countless people have to look out at for countless years. How do they stand it? Go back among my commentaries and compare this photo to the remarkable, fascinating, compelling views I had from the windows of The Apartment in Warsaw. To laugh or to cry, that should be the question. Ah, well. With nothing to look at through this window, my powers of thought and concentration should show remarkable improvement by the end of summer.

Rambling on & on -- verbally and literally

Part 2 of 2

To be honest, my return to America was generated for several reasons. Yes, primarily the sale of my house, but not the least of which was because I simply wanted to hear people speaking English in shops and on television and on the streets. Now, I find myself missing Europe very much -- the look of the cities and the smiles of many of the people I met. I need to return to learn if my attachment is merely melancholy memories or actual feelings. But, whether my return is for a few weeks or for long-term, only time will reveal -- because, inside of me, I have no inkling. Moods and emotions and circumstances often shift with the tides of life.

Just about the only place I do not want to go in Europe is to Italy. I have been to Rome twice. I am bored beyond mere words of hearing how great and grand and glorious Italy is, and what terrific ice cream is to be found there. Frankly, I think all ice cream is pretty much the same. Now, if we should begin a discussion about pizza, I might offer an inconsistent opinion .... and, of course, I might be persuaded to re-think my viewpoint if the subject were Venice, or about the northern lakes region, or ....

To ramble on: After my "mini-lease" on the townhouse expires, my intent is to wander a bit and to visit some of my former American "haunts" during September and, hopefully, return to Poland in October for three or four weeks before (maybe or maybe not) drifting on to somewhere else. It is all right to pause now and then, here and there, to rest and to study and to absorb -- but the name of the game is never to stop anywhere for too long and allow the present to become the past.

A person who is standing still obviously is going nowhere. There is a choice between left and right, backward and forward, down and up. Some people believe that there are greener pastures, a place over the rainbow, a land called Xanadu with its own actual sacred river named Alph(a). Even most religions have a version of hell and heaven at the end of earthly life. Theologians may argue cause and effect, but they at least understand that to pause for too long is to perish.

I freely admit that I am very pragmatic about making up my mind when it comes to important matters. My style is to weigh, measure, consider and to actually write out the pros and the cons of all issues when it comes to making major decisions. Then, after more intense soul-searching, I decide what coin I will use and flip it. That was a joke.

Whether I ever mentioned this in past commentaries or not, I cannot recall. But, when I was younger (last year, for example .... I am trying to be funny again), I was fond of bragging that I had done everything there was to do in one form or another by the age of twenty five. Just possibly I will provide a list for illustration sometime, but not this time. Anyway, since then life has been a series of repetitive motions. Pretty much like getting a haircut. (Incidentally, I had my hair trimmed today -- the first time in fifteen months.)

The pattern that emerges, from my standpoint, is forever trying to discover something new (and, I do not mean repeating the same thing in a different location or with a different person -- I have tried that, and it does not work) and, to be honest, I have been searching for a number of years and still am and probably always will be. Remember me? The "happiness is momentary guy?" (Suggestions, anyone? If you are a psychologist, fine; if you are clergy, skip it.)

Enough for right now. The continuation ends, for the time being, but, most certainly, will resume as the three months of Summer progress. Which reminds me, I probably will be in and out of here with a degree of regularity between now and the end of August unless lightning strikes. Send me some good luck on that .... on being struck by lightning, I mean ....

To recreate oneself is not a simple task

White Bear, who has been a traveling companion for me since we were introduced at an airport in Poland on New Year's Eve, checks out the view from the hood of our Suburban. Since he never had been to America before now, White Bear was generally only familiar with the smaller vehicles of Europe. Impressed by the size of a Suburban, he wasted no time learning how to drive it. Since I prefer to be a passenger rather than a driver, we have agreed that he will do most of the driving when we set out on a road trip in September. Unfortunately, for me, I was unable to persuade the young lady who introduced me to White Bear also to return to America with us.

Summer becomes a single moment in time

Part 1 of 2

Sometimes, it is easy to forget who you are and what you are and why you are. A year ago at this time, I was disgusted with American social and political strife (my external world) and bored with my personal life and surroundings as they existed (my internal world).

The eventual result was a flight to Europe in December. Without discussing the details, I will simply say that, for the most part, I was very happy there, and leaving was not easy.

Fast forward to the present.

Now, a few weeks after my return to America, the "same old" external and internal dissatisfaction has quickly caught up with me, and I am determined to break away again -- possibly, to remain in America or, maybe, to move on out to try Europe once again. (Those of you who have read my commentaries here in the past might recall this was my third trip to Europe, however, the first two were as a participant in a "conventional" tour group, with each stay lasting only about three weeks. This time, I rented an apartment and set up housekeeping for more than three months.)

Primary among my reasons for returning to America at this point was the sale of my house. I received an offer on it in March and, after thinking about it a couple of weeks, I decided to accept it. I could have handled the paperwork from Europe, but I had a considerable number of possessions remaining in the house or near to it.

So, back I came, and, in a leisurely manner (at least, until the past week) began the process of dividing things into four piles: Sell, give away, throw away or keep. I am pleased to report that I met the deadline (sort of), and withdrew the last of my possessions from the house this weekend.

I have leased a townhouse for three months, which should be more than ample time for me to complete my tasks here -- which, primarily, are to dispose of personal property that includes three lots, one "extra" automobile, books, guns, a coin collection and other odds and ends. I also need to spend some time writing (I hope).

When I said "sort of" in regard to meeting the deadline for clearing my house, I meant a number of boxes and assorted odds and ends are now piled up in the townhouse living room and in one of the three bedrooms. Oh, the tedium of going through boxes, some of which have been unopened for a decade or two ....

As I stated, I was happy -- very happy, for the most part -- living in the midst of winter in Europe, and I miss those days more than I can say. I am very much in love with so much of what is the Continent, yet, I am very much of a traditional American man in that within the first few days after arriving back here my activity included buying another Chevrolet Suburban (to replace the one I had sold before my departure) and two more rifles.

That is the American psyche within me from which I cannot escape -- the man who needs to drive one of the biggest vehicles on the highway and who needs rifles and handguns to feel secure and comfortable within the boundaries of his native country. Fool that I am. To recreate oneself is not a simple or an easy task -- at least not for me.

There you have it. There exists three month's time in which to organize (or to reorganize, if you prefer) my life -- to sell, to give away, to throw away and to decide what to keep and where to store it. And, that is the simple part of the equation. Ah, the magical, mystical dilemma. Where does one go when there is no obvious place to go to fulfill dreams and desires?

Some readers might also note that I have not mentioned resuming my search for a new house on a hill by a river or a lake. In truth, the further my former "Sanctuary / Refuge" drifts into my past, the more distant the thought of such a destination in the near future becomes. Maybe, someday, but it does not seem all that important to me right now.

Right now consists of a single Summer, a span of only three months, to plot a new course, while disposing of a significant portion of possessions collected during past incarnations. Life is a search. Some people end their searches in their own back yards. I often wonder how many of them are truly happy there, and how many actually are delusional liars who only claim to have found happiness. Some people never end their search, and I think whatever and wherever my end will be, fate does not mean for me to set up a last camp quite yet.

(To be continued)

The season of my continuing confusion & my contradiction: Will Summer bring to me what Winter did not?

Claude Monet Painting on His Studio Boat (1874) by Edouard Manet

Summer

By Amy Lowell (1912)

Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat’s wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature’s changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world’s heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!