Fiction Craft: Hemingway's Visit

by Robert Ferrier

Hemingway visited me last night.

Whether Papa arrived in the bedroom out of anger or as the apparition of a late-night snack, I'll never know.

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight spilling through the window. He sat down in front of my computer, lit a cigar and stared at me. "We need to talk."

"Talk?" I mumbled, choking on the smoke. "About what?"

"Your fiction craft column."

I stared at him. "What about it?"

"Needs work." He turned and exhaled smoke toward my computer.

"Huh?"

"Writing a novel is simpler than what you teach."

The smoke irritated my lungs. I coughed, fully awake now. "I read For Whom the Bell Tolls. You used scene and sequel, viewpoint, characterization, plot and all the other techniques. Fiction craft works."

"Did you tell your readers to learn craft and then put it in the back of their minds?"

"No!" I sat up in bed. "I told them to learn craft and use it."

The cigar glowed red as he inhaled. Since I don't smoke, the room had turned into a torture chamber.

"You remind me of a golfer I knew," Hemingway said. "He took lessons. Knew all the theory. Spent hours breaking down every movement in his swing. He was a mechanical marvel, but he lost every weekend."

"Why?"

"Because trying to break down a golf swing is like analyzing the flow of syrup."

"The flow of what?"

"Mr. Marvel tried to dissect a fluid process." He puffed again, the smoke looking as white as his beard. "His opponent swung naturally. You could pour that swing over pancakes."

I thought about that. "I'm confused. Those characters in For Whom the Bell Tolls – Robert Jordan, Pilar and Pablo – followed fictional rules." I waved smoke from my face. "And Santiago – your character in The Old Man and the Sea – accepted the story goal of bringing in that marlin and—"

"Santiago didn't accept a goal!" Hemingway snapped. "Neither did Robert Jordan or Pillar." He leaned forward, and I smelled alcohol on his breath. "They discovered why they were born."

"But..."

"Shut up and listen." The chair squeaked as he leaned closer. "We're born, and we die. Our goal is to discover why we were born. What defines us? Santiago was born to battle that fish. He knew that the moment he hooked it."

He stared at me, waiting.

"Then Richard Jordan was born to blow up a bridge in Spain?"

Hemingway leaned back and puffed on the cigar. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"And it's our job to plot events that define lives?"

He nodded. "That's your 'story goal' as the writer."

A light went on in my mind. "And if the writer doesn't know himself – why he was born ...." I stopped, my eyes watering from the smoke. The night seemed to hang in balance. "...then he's doomed to write like Mr. Marvel?"

Papa stood. "Don't make me come down here again. You may be seeing some of my friends in the future."

He seemed to blend with the smoke; then he was gone.

Copyright 2002 Robert Ferrier