Ernest Hemingway helped pioneer the literary styles of the twentieth century; sparse, clean – honest. Real. He helped set writing on the direction it has taken since. Which is why we need to listen to his lessons. Luckily for us he talked – he talked about a lot of things, including writing. It was an emotional exercise for him. But so it should be. For all of us.
Ernest Hemingway (left) and Carlos Guiterrez, 1934. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.
How important was Hemingway? Even Jack Kerouac – one of my favourite authors – extended the direction Hemingway and a few others of his ilk started, nearly a century ago. Authentic focus on human emotion – not the details of the room the characters sit in or even what they do in it, except as a window to the truth of their human reality. And many of his comments have survived – perhaps out of context, even reduced to aphorisms, but apt and important nonetheless. Here are a few of my favourites – with what I understand them to mean:
“Show the readers everything, tell them nothing.”
Probably the oldest lesson rammed at novice writers – show, don’t tell. There is actually a case, every so often, to tell; but not that often. How do you ‘show’, rather than telling? I’ll detail that in another post – but in a nutshell, it’s about how the character sees things; their reactions to events, not the events themselves.
“Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.”
Structure, structure, structure! Structure counts – florid descriptions don’t. They did once, but that was in the eighteenth century – and Hemingway was reacting. You should too.
“All my life I’ve looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time.”
Writing should have a freshness, and there is only one way to get it. Stepping back; getting abstracted from it – from every part of it, including the words that make up the mechanics of written prose.
“If a writer stops observing he is finished. Experience is communicated by small details intimately observed.”
Again, it’s to do with the reaction of the character to what they see, not lists of what is around them. You can paint pictures of character – as Hemingway did – by viewing things through their eyes. But to do that an author has first to know all those details themselves. Including the way that characters process them through the lens of their own persona.
“Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.”
Plain vanilla English is best. It carries absolute clarity, and it isn’t pretentious. Why say ‘discourse’ when you mean ‘talk’?
These rules still hold good today – more so, in fact. The human condition has not changed (talk to me about that – it’s a whole book of itself and I’d love to discuss it). Styles have – if anything, prose has become sparser. Technology has shifted the ball game fron Hemingway’s day. But it hasn’t changed the focus of writing; the onus is on writers – professionally published, self-published, indie, or aspiring – to push quality. Like Hemingway.
Do you have any thoughts on Hemingway? A favourite book of his? Or some thoughts you’d like to share about his lessons? Talk to me!
Copyright © Matthew Wright 2012
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It’s different from the 
For me, as a historian and New Zealander as well as a writer, this walk is inspiring on so many levels. Not least because Circular Quay and the old district of Sydney around it is the place where New Zealand’s history also began. Have you ever walked Circular Quay? Or wanted to see this part of Sydney, if you haven’t been there? Is there a city-scape that inspires you, in its own way? Do share – I’d love to hear from you!
Stories flow around this place; real stories, imaginary stories. Inspiring stories. Cool stories, and, I am sure, sad stories. It is a place for inspiration. And the gem – for me at least – remains the writers’ walk. Quotes from nearly twenty of New Zealand’s best known authors are scattered with seemingly joyous abandon across nearly a kilometre of waterfront. The concrete plaques peek, coyly, from gardens; they nestle in shadowy corners of wharves. And they rest where the sea laps across them.
