What do we do with our words? I listen to Hemingway.
December 30, 2017
We’ve all been given a deck of words. We shuffle them. We deal them. And we all play our hands differently.
Hemingway was dead solid serious.
So was the interviewer.
Hemingway had the answer.
The interviewer wanted it.
He asked, “How much re-writing do you do?
Hemingway paused, thought it over a moment, then replied, “It depends. I re-wrote the ending of Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, thirty-nine times.”
The interviewer raised an eyebrow.
One answer obviously led to the next question.
“Was there some technical problem there?” he wanted to know. “What was it that had stumped you?”
Hemingway didn’t hesitate.
“Getting the words right,” he said.
That’s the problem facing any writer.
We all have the same words in our basket.
We learn them.
We collect them.
We lock them away.
Need a new one?
Go to the dictionary.
Dictionaries are full of words.
So is Google.
But it’s what we do with those words that make the difference.
We never scatter them the same way.
Some of us pack a few words into compact sentences.
Others try to find out how many words they can string into a single sentence.
John had been expecting her when she came through the door.
He had waited up most of the night.
He was fearful.
She was tall.
He had been crying.
She was blonde.
He wore a frown.
She wore a red dress.
She carried a revolver.
Was she worried?
Or mad at him?
John no longer saw her face.
His eyes had not left the gun.
If she were leaving again, he thought, she would take his life with her.
That works for me.
It might not work for you.
You may prefer for your prose to be more lyrical.
You may want to write the same scene in a sentence that borders on literary fiction.
John had been up most of the night, full of angst and self-doubt, and he sat alone in a small, cramped room on the second floor of a walkup hotel, waiting for her to come, wondering if she would stay or leave again, wondering if he even wanted her to stay or leave again, and she had walked into the room before he saw her coming, and his eyes darted from her face, framed by long blonde hair, to the revolver she carried in her hand. He waited for her to speak, but she had nothing to say, and he was afraid to open his mouth, afraid she would close it forever with a single shot.
That works for me, too.
Writers simply sit in the darkness.
At least I do.
And we’ve all been given a deck of words.
We shuffle them.
We deal them.
And we all play our hands differently.
As Hemingway said, we all have one responsibility.
We must get the words right.
And we keep dealing them until we do.
Sometimes we fold the hand and walk away.