Living In Ernest Hemingway's Idaho

I fell in love with Ernest Hemingway in the Spring. In Mr. Jacobsen's 11th grade English Class at Boise High School, which, if you want to know, was in the basement. I have a terrible memory, but I remember this particular moment as if it happened yesterday (which, it most certainly did not) Mr. Jacobsen had us reading the Nick Adams stories and I was bowled over by the amount of meaning tucked in between every sparse sentence. As a verifiable introvert whose family had decided to live far away from other people with no television most of my life, I had read A LOT of books. But nothing like Hemingway. I think this was my second literary crush. My first was the cowboy from the Indian in the Cupboard when I was like 6. 

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
— Ernest Hemingway

We'll never know what it was actually like to inhabit a body that bumped into genius on such a regular basis, we do get the sense that Hemingway lived in a very ALIVE way. Yes he drank a lot. Yes, he got around. Yes, he did things that might not make Santa's nice list, but damn it, he lived. And I think a lot of us can appreciate that, especially in a world saturated with a lot of rules and expectations. 

Hemingway lived, and died in a house in Ketchum Idaho where he wrote, among other works, For Whom the Bell Tolls. But, wherever he was, my God, the man could WRITE. His work is magnificent, but I always liked that about Hemingway, it was considered actual work.  If we can take anything from Papa, perhaps it is to live big and show up for the work which you love. No excuses. 

This is our version of Hemingway in Idaho. I mean, the man had impeccable style. 

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