Did Hemingway Mow His Own Lawn?

My experience trying to get started.

Did Hemingway Mow His own Lawn?

I wonder if Ernest Hemingway mowed his own lawn? Probably not. I can't imagine him, after driving an ambulance across Spanish battlefields, being content with driving a riding mower around his 80 x 120 suburban lot. 

Mortals mowed their own lawns. The Hemingways of the world had lawn maintenance included in their association fees. 

I wonder if Hemingway ever gave a reading of one of his novels at an association meeting? I wonder if Hemingway belonged to a home owner's association? Home owner's associations were for the middle class, not Hemingway.

I wondered a lot about Hemingway lately. I had recently taken up writing and aspired to be the next Hemingway. 

I read his biography. He committed suicide on the same family farm in Idaho where his father had killed himself. I tried to fathom it, Spain, Paris, Cuba, Key West, Idaho....

No wonder he committed suicide. Who could do the things he did and then go home to live in Idaho?

I studied everything I could about Hemingway, which consisted of reading The Old Man and the Sea. Some of his books are really long. After finishing The Old Man and the Sea, I figured this was easy. A story about an old man and a fish, how hard could that be?

Armed with an iMac and a copy of Open Office, I started my literary career. Three hours later, I was still staring at a blank screen but progress was being made. 

At least, now I knew this was going to be harder than I thought. I wondered about Hemingway some more. I wondered what was on TV. TV won out. Enough work for today, I told myself. All work and no play made for dull people.

The next day, I started again. I had read that Jack London always wore work boots when he wrote. It reminded him that writing was hard work. 

After two hours, the screen was still blank and my feet were sore. I decided writing was hard work. I took a break. 

Time for lunch, anyway. Maybe it was the empty stomach causing my writer's block. At least part of me was a writer, it was the block part. After lunch, I took a nap.

The next day, I got a fresh start. I got up early. I showered, shaved, I drank half a pot of coffee and sat down in front of my iMac. 

I bet Hemingway would have loved to have one of these. “God, who could concentrate with all of this nervous energy?” I wondered what was on TV. No, a round of golf would calm me down.

I played the worst round of my life. I don't know if it was the coffee jitters or the ghost of Hemingway throwing my game off but something was causing me to either hook, shank, or slice every stroke. 

I hit the ball to places I wouldn't even look for my daughter in. By the time I returned home I was so mad I couldn't think about writing. I mowed the lawn. I wondered if Hemingway ever relaxed by mowing his yard.

On the fourth day, I decided the iMac was my enemy. Hemingway didn't use one and he did fine. Maybe what I needed was to go back to the old-fashioned way. All the classics were written by hand, Moby Dick... and some others. I couldn't think right now.

I could feel my creative juices starting to flow. Better get started. Where is a pencil when you need one? I found lots of pens but that would have been foolish. 

I went to the fridge. I added pencils to the shopping list. Tomorrow would be a new day. The world's greatest author was about to make his debut. 

I wonder how much being an author pays. I googled it, not much help. I found a porn site and spent the rest of the day feeling slimy.

The next day, a quick trip to the store, eggs, bacon, milk, bread, and pencils. I came home and made myself a bacon and egg sandwich. Why hadn't I put mayonnaise on the list? I sharpened one of my new pencils and started a new list. A fine list. Hemingway would have been proud.

I was making progress. Today instead of staring at a blank screen, I stared at a blank piece of paper. I felt the same way Hemingway must have felt when starting a new novel. I would rather feel the same way Hemingway felt when finishing a novel. Soon, grasshopper, soon, a voice inside my head whispered. 

I wondered if Kung Fu was still on the air. I'll google it. Another day staring at porn. At least I should have interesting dreams tonight. Maybe I'll dream up a plot for my novel.

I took today off. I bet even Hemingway didn't write seven days a week. Once in awhile, I need a little me time.

The next day, I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. That's what you need, a fresh sheet of paper to capture fresh ideas. 

A new pencil wouldn't hurt either. Where did I put that pencil sharpener? I took my old pencil and updated my shopping list: pencil sharpener. I would have to keep a better eye on this one. 

I wonder if Hemingway ever used a ghostwriter? Where do you get those guys? I wonder what they charged. I started to walk to my computer, No, not today. How much porn could you look at before you went blind? There was an idea for a book. The Blind Author. How would he find his paper? Scratch that idea.

Damn, Jack London was right, writing is hard work. Time for another grocery run. I could pick up some mayonnaise this time. 

While I was at the store, I thought of a great idea for a novel. I forgot it on the way home, damn traffic. It was that last light that got me, that and that Bee Gees song on the radio. Who could think after listening to the Bee Gees? 

When I got home I made myself another bacon and egg sandwich, with mayonnaise this time.

I was determined this time to see it through. Come hell or high water, I was going to get the first chapter under my belt. 

I forgot to get the pencil sharpener. This is a bad omen. Everyone knows you don't start a new project with a bad omen. 

I wonder if the grass is high enough to mow again? It wasn't but the mailbox needed some weed whacking.

The next day, I was energized. This was the day. Today, I was either going to become an author or start a lawn mowing business. 

I wonder what lawn mowing pays? I think I'll Google it.

Reviews

[Valentine]

Part of me wanted to laugh at parts of this, other lines reminded me of myself. I have written for years all by hand before computer or typewriter. Still have most original copies. Wonder who will want them when I am gone? Valentine

[Tom Wade]

Thanks for reading. I wrote this durinag a period of wrier's block.