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Imitating Author's Life Brings Novel Inspiration
--by Vicki Hendricks
As a literary influence,
Hemingway has probably affected me in the area of dialogue and a certain
"masculinity" of style. But there's nothing interesting to say about that, and I
don't flatter myself that I've reached Hemingway's level, although I'll allow anyone else
to flatter me in that way! The shocking realization of his influence comes in the area of
my life. Though it's surely an unfashionable acknowledgment, I can't deny that I'm a woman
whose life has been sculpted, to a frightening degree, by Hemingway--and perhaps similar
psychological urges. It sounds so foolish, but I believe I began imitating the writer's
life in hopes of becoming a writer.
It started in March, 1970, the date adolescently scrawled alongside my name in every
paperback Hemingway I own, basically all he published while alive. I recalled that in some
corner of my brain almost thirty years ago, I actually expected to be a writer and thought
it would be important for me to know when I had read Hemingway, even though my incredibly
naive virgin mind, nurtured in Catholic girls' schools, had little understanding of the
conflicts.
I moved from his fiction to his life, not much of a leap, and for years, held the secret
and convenient belief that to become a writer, it is not particularly necessary to write,
but to model oneself on the writer that one wishes to emulate, and whatever elements came
together in the universe to create that magical talent will do so a second time.
Hemingway. The choice of millions, mostly men perhaps, and mine.
It's a sobering thought--thank God I still have some of those--that the facts of my life
illustrate a silly parody of Hemingway's. For the sake of length, I can't mention all the
specifics, but to begin, my obsession with the tropics and anything linked to the ocean
was initiated by my love of Hemingway. I was married in 1973, on the condition that we
move to South Florida, and the first goal of my marriage was satisfied when I visited the
Hemingway House a few months later. I still have the pictures we took as I tried to
breathe in the atmosphere--any remaining Hemingway essence--from the cracks of the sofa
and heavy red velvet drapes in the living room, hoping that some molecules might remain
that contained the seed of classic prose, the symbolism, the "truth" of
existence. I'm not kidding. I have a photo of me from 1974, "illegally" lying on
Hemingway's bed on an orange and yellow chenille bedspread that must have long since
shredded to dust, another attempt to possess him physically. At that time the guide would
leave visitors to wander unescorted through the upstairs--to dream, but not to touch.
I remember the lobster shell Hemingway had mounted on a wood plaque above the sink in the
kitchen, another item that has since no doubt crumbled. I found a dried horseshoe crab
which I mounted and hung in my living room. Eventually I began to collect cats, never
reaching the disputed Hemingway number, but not for lack of trying. Nine was my top
number, and since then I've found a friend with over fifty cats, including a six-toed
tabby, that I can visit any time. I suspect my friend has his own Hemingway fantasy going.
Although my past seems superficially to be a normal life, having a son, getting a Master's
in English, teaching, collecting books, doing anything but writing fiction, I managed to
live "the life" through yearly visits to the house and Sloppy Joe's, occasional
overindulgence, and beginning my adventures in scuba diving--a Hemingway sport, in my
rationale, because of its daring and association with fish. Of course, I had the sense not
to tell anybody why I did all these things. What if my plan to become a writer didn't
work?
My husband never noticed the connection between my interests, but he humored me. Although
our resources were limited, we went to Europe in the summer of 1980, hitchhiking from
London to Paris, spending five days in Paris in a $7 room with a straw mattress, able to
afford one full meal during that time. We had French bread and coffee in the morning and
French fries from Chinese take- outs at night. We drooled at bakery windows. It was
wonderful. I knew something good must be forming in my soul, cultivated by "early
Hemingway moments."
Somewhere over the years, I began to realize that I could not stay married. To simplify,
marriage was too constricting for me--as a writer? I wasn't writing. As a person obsessed
with the romantic drinking and carousing life of Hemingway? I hope that wasn't the entire
depth of it. Of course, Hemingway enjoyed plenty of freedom along with marrying four
times, but for me, remaining single seems the only way to insure my adventures.
I find it amusing that a few years ago I bought a very expensive set of dishes,
ridiculously costly and difficult to ship, from a mountain top on an island in Greece
simply because they were hand-painted with octopi, a design similar to a set I recall from
my early years at Hemingway House, where it was displayed in the cabinet in the hall near
the kitchen. Again my motive had remained a secret. Now that I'm a writer why haven't I
stopped imitating?
And I've become addicted to adventuring. I've obsessed in scuba, sailing, and now
skydiving. Would Hemingway have made a couple of hundred jumps, given the chance--or have
I finally outdone him? No matter. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger"--I
think Hemingway and I both feel the same way. I'd planned for a safari and a great white
shark dive this year off the coast of South Africa, and I put a deposit on a trip to run
with the bulls, but due to overlaps, I've had to put both of those on hold. So far, I
haven't attained Hemingway's amount of leisure time, but I'm working on it.
Of course, "the life" provides material, so maybe I can cling to some self-
respect. My novel Iguana Love, out later this year, is centered on a woman adventurer.
There's much of the tropics, and scuba, and a scene in The Compleat Angler, Hemingway's
favorite bar in Bimini. The woman grows a penis on steroids. Hmm. That's not me. I don't
aspire to entering the Hemingway lookalike contest.
In Voluntary Madness, my novel for next year, a couple obsessed with Hemingway break into
his house, sniff at the sofa cushions and have sex in his bed, steal the yellow and orange
bedspread. They're seeking his muse, inspiration for their own novel.
In between the time I received the assignment to write this piece and as I finish it
today, I continue, despite myself, to live something of the Hemingway lifestyle., forever
caught in the flow. At the end of June, I traveled by train from Figueres to Barcelona,
leaving my skydiving adventure to spend a couple of days sightseeing. I studied the
foothills of the Pyrenees in the distance--dark green. The man in "Hills Like White
Elephants" was right: they look nothing like white elephants. As the train stopped at
small station after station, I looked for beaded curtains with the words Anis del Toro,
but of course, they now have doors instead. I decided to try the licorice liquor when I
reached Barcelona.
I studied the set up of every station thinking of the story--the couple would have been
seated on the station side to have drinks, and depending on the way the unidentified
station was situated, the train south to Madrid could be on either side. So when the man
moves the bags to the other tracks, it's meaningless for resolving whether Jig will get
the abortion or not. He could be moving them to the tracks for Madrid or to go back to
wherever they came from--a little Hemingway analysis, never far from my mind.
I didn't try the Anis del Toro. When I reached Barcelona, I spent a short time sightseeing
and then had my bag stolen by gypsies. It contained all my money, my passport, my Visa
card, my tickets, my pocket translator, my jacket, my hairbrush, and notes for an article
I was to write for Parachutist magazine. I could have done without the incident, but as I
spent the night in the train station, with a few pesetas that I had panhandled for batatas
fritas from the junkfood machine, half-dozing on my parachute and suitcase, and the
cleaning men swirled the scrubber around me, I felt good. I knew I would get back home
eventually, too soon even, and there I was, coming through the test with my own version of
"grace under pressure." I chuckled. I remembered that during a penniless time in
his life, Hemingway had once lost a whole suitcase full of manuscripts in a train station.
I'd come close enough to be satisfied.
Copyright © 1999 Vicki Hendricks. All rights reserved.