[b]Ernest Hemingway
It’s a bore, he said out loud.
What is, my dear?
Anything you do too bloody long.[/b]
Living, for example.
Brett was damned good-looking. She wore a slip-over jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy’s. She started all that. She was built with curves like the hull of a racing yacht, and you missed none of it with that wool jersey.
Let’s decide if this is politically correct.
I was trying to learn to write, commencing with the simplest things, and one of the simplest things of all and the most fundamental is violent death.
Sometimes men, sometimes beasts.
I suppose she only wanted what she couldn’t have. Well, people were that way. To hell with people. The Catholic Church had an awfully good way of handling all that. Good advice, anyways. Not to think about it. Oh, it was swell advice. Try and take it sometime. Try and take it.
Not only that but the part about Hell. This works better for some.
I wonder if he has any plans or if he is just as desperate as I am?
Some you can ask, some you can’t.
The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector. This is the writer’s radar and all great writers have had it.
So, by all means, be careful not to step in mine.