Damn You, Ernest Hemingway
Hemingway’s Influence: A Double-Edged Sword
I don’t like Ernest Hemingway. I used to love him, but not anymore. And I have good reason. You see, Ernest Hemingway ruined my life.
Since I finished reading The Sun Also Rises thirty years ago, I’ve believed I could be a novelist. What Papa made look so easy turns out to be a magic trick he mastered alone. There’s no one like him.
The Allure of the Writer’s Life
I’ve loved to read from the moment I learned how in first grade. But none of my teachers ever said, “When you publish your first book, you should dedicate it to me.” No. The decision to attempt writing sits squarely on my shoulders.
Plenty of people warned it would be a struggle. They told me I wouldn’t make money. That I’d regret it later. I didn’t care. Like my parents always said, “You can be anything you want when you grow up.” It took five more years before I attempted my first book.
Reality vs. Expectation
In The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway describes the amoral lifestyle of American expatriates living in Paris during the 1920s. The narrator, Jake Barnes, leads his equally untethered friends to Pamplona for the bullfights and San Fermin Festival. There, a prized bullfighter falls in love with the only woman in the group, causing friction among the men.
I was inspired—maybe too inspired. For the next twenty-five years, I lived more like the characters than I wrote like Hemingway. Unlike mathematics, where there’s a correct answer, writing has infinite possibilities. Many authors have gone a little crazy trying to write the perfect novel. It’s impossible.
Hooked for Life
Who knows what life would have looked like if I hadn’t been swept up in letters, words, and punctuation marks because of Hemingway? Would I have spent afternoons drinking at outdoor cafés, as he glorified in his stories? Or maybe picked up fishing without his novels?
I didn’t have a plan. I simply wrote, full of confidence that I would become a great success. I wouldn’t say I’ve reached that goal—yet. Twenty-five years later, I have three self-published books and an Instagram page where I share Bentonisms: quotes and short poems meant to spark a little wisdom.
Still Writing, Still Hoping
Writing is still frustrating. Maddening, even. And yet I doubt I’ll ever stop. Whether I reach my goals or not, I’m holding out for the dream. There’s nothing I find more satisfying to do with my clothes on than sitting in front of my computer, trying to write some magic of my own.
Damn you, Ernest Hemingway. You hooked me on this strange art, and now I can’t quit.
Damn you, Ernest Hemingway.
My parents wanted me to be a doctor.