Hemingway and Writing

Three new biographical studies of Ernest Hemingway are out, even though they may not be needed.  The life of this overly celebrated writer has been thoroughly researched by many others.  I am more interested in the writer than the man who became a brand name.

Hemingway remains, says Fintan O'Toole in the current New York Review of Books, a fascinating object of study: behind his "outlandish public image," O'Toole says, is a trauma caused by World War I and a complex sexuality that resulted in a hypermasculine swagger that I have commented on before. He became, in the words of his third wife, a "loathsome human being."

But was he also a genius?  How influential is he today as a writer?  Well, he has been a major influence on the modern short story, especially its style; he was a master of the story form and produced at least three significant novels (The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and Old Man and the Sea) that reflect his cold-blooded view of human life in memorable tough-guy prose. Although he re-defined American prose fiction in the mid-20th century, he also wrote much that was disappointingly mediocre, the result probably of his drinking and multiple injuries.

Still, in his prime, Hemingway was a serious reader and fine craftsman who gave some valuable advice to writers.  Having revised the ending of A Farewell to Arms 39 times, as he said in an interview, he reminds us of the importance of crafting each sentence carefully and revising the resulting paragraph.

Revise endlessly, he said: "The main thing is to know what to leave out."
He mastered the iceberg theory of literature whereby three-fourths of what happens in a story is unstated, implied, as in his famous six-word story: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn."

"The way you can tell if you are good," he said, "is by what you can throw away."  He claimed to throw away nine out of ten stories he wrote.

Since all style is personal, he said, "don't ever imitate anybody."  Writers, of course, steal ideas freely from one another but not style, which has to suit the subject, as it does in Hemingway; it also reflects the author behind the words.

I think the wannabe author can learn many techniques from reading Hemingway, such as the use of dialogue to carry the action and the value of concise, understated sentences. His work is a reminder of the axiom that suggestion is more powerful than statement.

When writers get blocked

In one of my favorite movie comedies, "Throw Momma From the Train," from 1987, Billy Crystal plays a writing teacher named Larry, who is stuck on the opening of his novel.  The movie opens with Larry at his typewriter.

Repeatedly, and with growing frustration, he types, "The night was. .  .dark," and then scraps that and goes in search of other equally silly adjectives, hoping for the perfect word that will get him going, as if a strong opening sentence will lead to another sentence, and so on.

What kind of writing teacher is Larry? Maybe he deserves the student from hell, Owen (Danny DeVito), who has a mother from hell; she must be seen and heard to be believed.  See the movie if you haven't.

Larry should know that trying to get it right the first time is pointless: there is no writing without revision, and the opening is usually one of the last things to be redone again and again. Equally missing in Larry's amusing notion of teaching is his stereotyped belief that writers must wait for inspiration, and also suffer, curse, waste paper and time, as if the perfect word and idea will magically appear.

Writers in movies often gaze at the stars, waiting for the Muse to inspire them. It doesn't work like that.

As I tell my students, it's normal and acceptable to write bad sentences; writing isn't brain surgery. It's all about redoing the sentences. The first draft is expected to be rough, and it is by forging ahead and "talking" it out on paper (or screen) that ideas emerge that can be shaped into something readable.

Hemingway, who says he revised the ending of "A Farewell to Arms" 39 times, wrote to a young would-be writer that if he completes ten stories, he throws out nine of them: only one is worthy of publication.

Even though Hemingway exaggerated a good bit, and lied, he was a good craftsman, a wide reader, and had sensible advice on the writing process, such as: Put the work aside until the next day. Know when to stop. And know that the draft will always be there for you to rework.

Writing doesn't have to be frustrating. It is not easy to think clearly, and it takes time and patience and an ability to sit still for a while. But it should be enjoyable, in the sense of fulfilling.  If it isn't, why do it?

Are the half-dozen unfinished stories, and the eight or nine finished but unpublished pieces in my files signs of wasted time? No, they were enjoyable to do because I take satisfaction in re-writing, line by line, until I have something fresh and worth a reader's attention.  I have begun dozens of articles over the years that never got completed, but the time put into them was a learning, and learning should at some level be enjoyable.

I worry about beginning writers who want to be published but don't really enjoy writing or have a sense of language; when they read, they do so for information rather than style. I suggest that they pay attention to the way skilled authors construct articles, stories, paragraphs, and sentences. Being a writer means immersing yourself for several years in the work of good writers before you even consider writing for publication.

Now, how do you know what writers are good?  Don't ask teachers like Larry, who, like Owen in that movie, is a wonderful comic invention with no clue about what writers really do.

What makes good historical fiction

I have never been a great fan of historical fiction. It seems that most of the novels that I tried reading, often involving the Tudor period in England, seemed contrived, with  artificial dialogue resembling furniture that's been antiqued.  Lately, I have encountered some fiction rooted in the 20th century, where I feel more at home or, I should say, where the author and I feel more comfortable.

One of the very best in this genre is The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, recommended to me by someone in the audience at my talk on Hemingway last month at the University Club in Winter Park.  Hearing what I had to say about Hadley Richardson and the Paris years of Ernest Hemingway, she said, "you must read this book."

I find McLain's novel a template of what makes historical fiction function well. First, the author is clearly immersed in her subject, having read probably everything, including the letters, of the people involved; as a result, she captures the rhythm of their sentences in her own elegant style. It helps that McLain is a published poet since her language is original without being showy, and her sentences sparkle: "we wore navy-blue skirts," she writes, "with knife-sharp points."  Ernest at 21 is "white hot with life."

As a result, the reader--at least I--can feel the energy of the man, which is easily reduced to a cliché, as in Woody Allen's otherwise charming movie, Midnight in Paris. Her style brings the characters to life in a way that rings true for someone like me who had read a lot about and by Hemingway over many years.

The result of reading the novel is the true litmus test of historical fiction: I forget at times I am reading fiction. It all seems real! This is made possible by something recommended by Wendell Berry in his poem "How to be a Poet": "you must depend upon affection."

Reading and knowledge are important for a writer, along with narrative skill and the careful revision of every sentence, but McLain's success begins with her obvious love of her material. Her enthusiasm draws me in so I have an immediate affection for Hadley and even the young Hemingway. She is able to convey the tragic family background of her narrator, Hadley, whose father committed suicide, with subtle feeling but no sentimentality.

She has also organized the narrative crisply, with clear transitions when flashbacks occur; and the novel is concise. No doubt I came to this book with a bias in its favor, having just spent a lot of time on Hemingway's life and the women in it, but I never expected a female novelist to bring alive the man's charisma:  "He grinned a grin that began in his eyes and went everywhere at once. . .  .He moved like light. He never stopped moving--or thinking or dreaming apparently."

(I say "female" novelist because Hemingway has been famously unpopular with many women readers; of course, McLain's real subject is his first wife.)

I have no formula for good historical fiction, and I doubt if I would ever attempt a historical novel since I can see the great challenge involved: making real, well-known people into fictional characters who have an imaginative life, apart from the facts of history; and not letting the facts dominate. Letting, rather, the affection dominate, as McLain admirably does.