Hemingway on Writing

From Ernest Hemingway’s acceptance speech for the 1954 Nobel Prize for Literature:

Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.  Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing.  He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates.  For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.

How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written.  It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.

A writer should write what he has to say and not speak it.

Daytona Beach Morning Journal
Dec 11, 1954

Hemingway’s a master (of course) and I don’t doubt that he’s right (I know he is).  But, as an aspiring writer, I hope that writers can get through those lonely moments without feeling too terribly alone.


The Parent-As-Pseudo-Blogger-Who-Yearns-To-Travel


My Four Wonderful Kids

Hello.  And yes, I’m being lazy today, or so you might say.  I’m wandering through your dreams, looking for connections to my own, so that I might post your interesting life as something I’m….

Aspiring to.

Hoping to.



Excuses?  Nope.  None.

Reasons?  All my own.

Shelved career met stay at home parenting needs.  Which was a-ok with me.

I think.

Except when you trample on my accomplishments.

Like getting one to eat green beans.

Like getting one to dress in clothes. Mainly ones that are clean.

Like getting one to graduate.  On time.

Like getting one to take that tether just a little bit further away.

From me.

My purpose is to prepare them for living beyond me.

And I love that.

I think.

I have the greatest unpaid worth on Earth.

I think.

Parenting when I want to backpack on two feet.

Staying home, when I want to fly as far as wings can take me.

Working in the space between Mom and He and Bothers and Me.

Not enough time for all the HE’s can do, in the world.

Placing my dreams in a box, not meant to be opened for some time to come.

How long?

Who knows?

But in the meantime, I live vicariously.

Through you.

Through the Lookingglass

If I knew then what I know now – I would have gone through the looking glass years ago…

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