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I'm taking Hemingway's A Moveable Feast a little bit at a time.
Among my small epiphanies: I had never realized that the phrase "the lost generation," coined by Gertrude Stein and referring to a group of American writers who relocated to Paris in the years following World War I (and which I had always associated with writers like Hemingway), was a label he detested.
Among my larger epiphanies: If the structure of the first few chapters holds, in particular, their individual, vignette-like nature and their brevity, then writing a book like AMF is an eminently attainable goal. (Whether one finds a voice as distinctive as Papa's... well, that's a separate question!)
I was so affected by this latter realization, that I began to do what Hemingway himself said was not such a good idea outside of "writing hours": I started to think about what I might write.
Take my word for it, this is not a good idea once you've hit the sack and turned out the lights.
I tossed and turned for at least two hours in a state of semi-drowsiness, and in the course of that time, I must have mentally outlined (and written) one marvelous chunk of text, or at least that's how I felt this morning, when I couldn't recall a thing, really, except that something that had passed through my mind last night resonated strongly with the first few words of The Rifleman's Creed,
In between all the hullaballoo, I thought of several new angles to incorporate into my ATA presentation. I made a conscious effort to remember them, and did (or at least I don't remember any that I may have forgotten :).
A contributing factor to my mild insomnia last night (or might one characterize it as 'indigestion' from the "moveable feast") was probably the steady patter of falling rain, though why that might be is not entirely clear, as such sounds generally are conducive to falling asleep and not otherwise. In any event, this morning, we awoke to the sight of snow on the mountains outside our window:
Work continues to arrive and I'm dealing with it. Somewhere between everything else, I shall deal with my presentation as well.
Cheers...
Among my small epiphanies: I had never realized that the phrase "the lost generation," coined by Gertrude Stein and referring to a group of American writers who relocated to Paris in the years following World War I (and which I had always associated with writers like Hemingway), was a label he detested.
Among my larger epiphanies: If the structure of the first few chapters holds, in particular, their individual, vignette-like nature and their brevity, then writing a book like AMF is an eminently attainable goal. (Whether one finds a voice as distinctive as Papa's... well, that's a separate question!)
I was so affected by this latter realization, that I began to do what Hemingway himself said was not such a good idea outside of "writing hours": I started to think about what I might write.
Take my word for it, this is not a good idea once you've hit the sack and turned out the lights.
I tossed and turned for at least two hours in a state of semi-drowsiness, and in the course of that time, I must have mentally outlined (and written) one marvelous chunk of text, or at least that's how I felt this morning, when I couldn't recall a thing, really, except that something that had passed through my mind last night resonated strongly with the first few words of The Rifleman's Creed,
This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.and strongly enough that it made an impression in my consciousness.
In between all the hullaballoo, I thought of several new angles to incorporate into my ATA presentation. I made a conscious effort to remember them, and did (or at least I don't remember any that I may have forgotten :).
A contributing factor to my mild insomnia last night (or might one characterize it as 'indigestion' from the "moveable feast") was probably the steady patter of falling rain, though why that might be is not entirely clear, as such sounds generally are conducive to falling asleep and not otherwise. In any event, this morning, we awoke to the sight of snow on the mountains outside our window:
Work continues to arrive and I'm dealing with it. Somewhere between everything else, I shall deal with my presentation as well.
Cheers...
