I have decided to broaden my horizons! I went to the local book store that now has open mike night for poetry and I found “EARNEST HEMMINGWAY’S A MOVEABLE FEAST”. It was fate It was as if HEMMINGWAY himself placed his book in my hand. The way he describes the city of PARIS I feel as if I am right there with him battling the cold and the whore mongers of the local pub.

Tears almost came to my eyes as I visualized him walking along the BOULEVARD ST.-GERMAIN. Wishing I was there to pick his brain. Even later when the book hints at his slight gambling addiction to the horse races. I can see the horses bust loose of the starting gate. I can hear the pistol firing go and even smell the dust rise as the horses take off.

What was really exciting about this book was the newspaper clipping I found inside. It was a 2009 paper advertising a reprint of the very same book. It had a lovely picture of him and his wife from 1921! The more I read the more I found myself falling into an abyss of confusion and intrigue. You see he committed suicide by way of a shotgun in 1961. Which is a head scratcher since a friend at work pointed out it would be really tough to kill yourself by way of shotgun, because your arms are not long enough to hold it to your head while pulling the trigger.

Another astonishing thing I read was “A MOVEABLE FEAST” was his last book. Only 3 short months after he wrote his very last line he died. He hadn’t even published it his son  Patrick got it published, well the latest version of it. And even hinted that HEMMINGWAY was not running on all cylinders in the end. It says “A MOVEABLE FEAST”, Hemmingway’s fictionalized memoir of life in Paris in the early 20’s. And is typical of Hemmingway, you may find much below the surface of the sentence to ponder. Which has been tampered with- his heart or his memory? -And which no longer exists?

I read this part of the paper and I was traumatized. How could his descriptions of the great Pari be fictionalized! Then I realized he wrote this book at the end of his life based on memory from over 40 years before. Maybe his memory was faulty, maybe he forgot some things and just filled in the empty pages. Yet, to suggest he was not all there and just made it up! I don’t believe it.

I sit her even now writing this shaking my head. However, another head scratcher came to mind. I began to wonder if there were any other writer’s or poets throughout history that killed themselves or went crazy or were just a little quirky!

I must admit I did a GOOGLE search and the results astounded me. Among Hemmingway was SYLVIA PLATH and VIRGINIA WOOLF! The crazy or quirky were BRAM STOKER, MAYA ANGELOU, and even CHARLES DICKENS!

Then I realized it must be a writer gene! We are all a little crazy at times. We all march to the beat of our own drummer. We are all  quirky in our own right. Yet, we write on! No matter what people think of us. I giggle at the thought of how many years I spent trying to fit in with the “IN” crowd and yet my writing is all me. It doesn’t care who likes it, it just is!

I can actually feel the skeletal fingers of HEMMINGWAY reaching out to me from beyond the grave as if to say, “Write, write you fool!” No matter what the future holds I now know I am a writer and I know that no matter where I go or what I do. “A MOVEABLE FEAST”  will forever be a part of me and with any luck, my name will be among his ranks one day.




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