A Rambling Raconteur

Last Monday I visited the Hemingway Museum in Piggott, AR. A few of my friends chipped in gas money with me and we made a day of it. It was fun, to say the least.

I doubt you'll find many English professors that will not praise Hemingway's various literary works, but walking through his house I had to wonder what had become more important: his writing or his legend?

Some people couldn't tell you the name of any of his short stories but could tell you how he died. His suicide and alcoholism have bolstered his persona to near-mythic proportions. Does this legend of an adventuresome, boozing womanizer outshine his literary feats? I hope not. Although this does bring up an interesting point.

I'm not a Hemingway scholar by any means, but it seems to me that being a writer was only second in ol' Ernest's life. He was alive first a foremost. I may not agree with all of his practices, but you can't tell me the man was boring.

I think that this is where a lot of modern writers are falling short. They do nothing but write and publish. They've missed a very important step: living. How can you write about a great adventure if you've never had one yourself? How can you write a romance if you've never fallen in love? How can you write through the eyes of a character if you've never stopped to see the world from another person's point of view?

So, tonight I raise my glass to you Mr. Hemingway. May I live a life worth writing of.