The paper is white. The pencil is sharp. The coffee, dark and strong, like the women who take the bottle from his hand at night and leave him alone with his typing machine in the morning. When the sun shines the curling wave, that is when the writer must face the fracted depths that are the empty page. Name the writer. Claim the empty prize that is fame.
Now, this writer must enter the arena with the deadline, the bull we face if we are to claim the ear of the mortgage.
2 comments:
Huh, I thought Hemingway wrote in longhand.
Dusty,
For some reason I can't post today, but you're right, I'd heard the same thing. My guess si he composed in longhand and sent letters, submissions, etc. after typing them. That's my guess.
And I don't know why blogger won't let me post anything today, but there you are. I'll be out from three days, so play nice.
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