Writing,
at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's
loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature
as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his
work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack
of it, each day.
For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.
How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.
For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.
How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.
Ernest
Hemingway
I often think of Ernie's words when beginning or ending a book. Right now, I am midway between finishing my thirteenth book and beginning a new work. My latest attempt is a new genre for me, since I primarily write historical novels and crime theme books. This new work is a mainstream literary story about a young girl, Naomi is her name, and she became my constant companion over the last ten months. Because of something that happened to me about a year ago, my life was drastically altered and the shock-waves are still reverberating in my psyche. Naomi is my attempt at placating the demons by giving them an outlet; allowing them to vacate my innermost thoughts and leave me with only an echo of memory; one that no longer gives pain but accepts reality for what it is.
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