I am reading Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast. His style has been parodied so much that it always takes a minute or two to let go of the echo and immerse in the flow, but I find it very enjoyable once I do. He writes of sitting in a cafe in Paris on a cold rainy day, writing all day long on a story that at first writes itself. Then he has to apply himself, writing about Michigan while he sits in the cafe, and he wonders if he’ll write about Paris, sitting somewhere else (which of course he does). Very evocative, and I decided I’ll have to try that one day.
He writes about writing in a way I understand. The book led me. Now I have to work really hard, and I don’t necessarily always like this part. The detail work. The crafting, examining every sentence, listening for those pesky repetitive words, trying to make sure it all has a spirit and a flow and…at the very mimimum, makes sense.