If I could someday write like Hemingway, Steinbeck, or London, I’d die content.
What would you say to Hemingway?
The Idaho sun is, just now, rising above the treetops. The Sun Valley home you find yourself within smells of Hoppe’s, old leather, whiskey and sweat. He’s there, sitting in a stiff backed chair behind a desk. You’ve plopped yourself into a leather stuffed monster that nearly swallows you whole.
“Papa,” you say, “your stories are not — have never been — real.”
“Of course they were real.” The man slurs his words, from age or alcohol, it’s hard to tell which. His bearded face scowls at your assumption.
“I mean, to readers. To readers, they were always imaginings. They shut the book and their own lives came back into view.”
“You could go on telling stories that even you, yourself, knew to be ensconced fully in the realm of imagination.”
The old man cleaned his teeth with his tongue. His jaw…
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