Writing and Bleeding

In his speech for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954 (read by someone else) Ernest Hemingway wrote:

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.

Unlike the musician, but perhaps more like the painter, it begins and proceeds in solitude. That doesn’t mean that others aren’t involved at points in the process: concept discussions, editing, beta readers, and so on. But writing is primarily a single-person endeavor.

As I write this, I am alone at one of my “sabbaticals” in the desert. It is a week for me to focus on writing. Each day, from about 9 or 10 in the evening until mid-afternoon the next day, I have no human contact. I can see golfers on the course beyond my balcony. I might get emails or texts. But solitude is the characteristic of the seven days.

It is an interesting dichotomy because quality writing requires knowledge of the human condition. To understand the pain and joy, awkwardness and boldness; to know, experience, and explore what it means to be human. Without interaction with others, a writer can’t address suffering and joy, sin and forgiveness, failure and success. If a writer wants to write important and lasting works, then that knowledge and experience are crucial. It is the bowl of ink into which one dips the pen to write meaningful words. The oft-quoted saying of Hemingway (probably quoting someone else) captures this eloquently: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

So after a morning and afternoon of writing, I head out to be among humans. Sitting around a pool, I read and listen and watch. At the gym, I exercise and listen and watch. Sometimes, I strike up conversations, asking questions when appropriate. Later, I might go to a nice bar to eat and have a drink. Resort or large bars are the best—they are classy, roomy, filled with a variety of people from all over (and have a good selection of fine Scotch whiskeys). These bars are some of the best places for background, plot, theme, and character ideas. This is especially true when there is a large conference held there. The attendees, grouped in clusters, preening and jockeying for social and business standing, often revealing far more about themselves than they are aware or would want.

If you asked me, “What one thing do you take away from the listening and watching?” I would say it is this: we are the walking wounded. There is much brokenness and pain, about which we work hard to ignore, rationalize, or deny. Sometimes it is a small wound, sometimes it defines life. Some are coping, others are on life-support, and the varying degrees of drunkenness often attest to the severity. We’re all in need of a faith that can help us see the big picture and give meaning to suffering—but we don’t know where to find it or if it even exists.

See what I mean? Just an hour or two at a bar leads one to thoughts of philosophy and theology. And for a writer, it is gold. Because we are all suffering or searching, and good writing should help us face the struggle, and, if it can’t bring some direction and healing, at least help us know we aren’t alone in it.

I don’t stay at these places for long, somewhat because I feel out of place, but more so because it is depressing. Lest you determine to never visit a bar with me, it is not all somber depression. I hear some genuine triumphs and joys, though less often than the other. Most of the people I talk to are kind, and happy to have some unfiltered human contact, even if it is about the weather, their drink, or baseball playoff game on the television.

I return to my apartment, thankful that I have family and friends in my life who love me, and that I feel some purpose for what I do. And I’m grateful for those at the pool, gym, and bar, who may or may not be suffering, but who have given me some grist for the mill, which I can try to make into bread that nourishes others.

That makes us all a part of the writing process. There are 500 or more people that I will hear, see, or talk to this week. And each one of them plays at least some role in my writing. This does not count the people who are part of my life and people who I have encountered during my life, who also play a role. That’s a reason to be thankful, too.

And it also makes writing not seem so lonely.