Ernest Hemingway wrote a collection of little stories, sketches really, about his life in Paris when he was "learning to be a writer". This literary gem is entitled
A Moveable Feast and in it he describes the sometimes difficult task of writing, of disciplining oneself concerning putting words on a page, whether anything good comes or not. The book was published by his widow after his death, and it is one of my absolutely most favorite pieces of writing EVER. It is sweet and simple, but with a sense of mystery and almost a little melancholy in places. To me it feels like a good chat with an old friend every time I pick it up. In the spirit of following the dear man himself, I have decided that I need a little discipline in my life. Plus, my mother and sister are going to lose their minds if I don't "just write something already!"
So here it is, mes chéris: in the spirit of Hemingway and of familial sanity, my little blog. It will probably be nonsense more often than not... I am not promising you a rose garden. I mostly imagine that my life does not contain enough lovely things to be interesting to the outside world, but every time I have that thought I then turn and find that I am blessed beyond all belief, and then I begin to wonder whether someone else might think those blessings were charming, funny, poignant or bittersweet, if only I would set them down. Peut-être. Nous verrons...
And so, we begin. At the beginning, of course...
Photo by J.Highland... "Paris at Twilight"
