Hemingway’s Advice AKA Experiment Numero 1



I’ll be looking up advice from other writers to see how they handle writer’s block and other dilemmas. I chose this one first because, well…it’s freaking cold out and I had some Blue Moon in my fridge. Thanks for your time.


Ever heard of that Hemingway quote, “Write drunk; edit sober”?

Well, I wouldn’t say I’m drunk, but this is the close it’s ever going to get on the internet. Here I go…


The heater is on. I’ve been playing the same chords for the last hour, taking breaks every now and then to …. watch the news, Glee (don’t judge me), and my facebook newsfeed. I know, it’s a Saturday. And it’s not like I don’t a party to go to, or anything, I do. I really do, but I was invited by a third party and that’s always awkward because I might know like … three or four people there. I might only talk to two of them, but really enjoy one conversation…if that makes sense. Plus, it’s freaking cold tonight in the bay area. Like, frost on my windshield cold. I literally wore thermals today. That’s so sad. This is California, for crying out loud.

What else…?

So yesterday I got into a fb debate about abortion. Gah, it’s like I try to avoid it, but people just frustrate me so much. I won’t share what I debated, for fear that yesterdays horrible display of communication might replicate itself onto this blog. I wouldn’t want to do that. You know what’d be funny? If there was a blog solely dedicated to drunk writing. Maybe it exists…hmmm…something to research later.

I am home alone, and although this might sound boring, it’s absolutely heaven for me right now. Why? Because it’s freaking cold outside, and I am inside—as cozy as a teddy bear. Whatever that means. Use your imagination. Next to my laptop (yes, I am writing about the things on my desk) is a bowl with marinara stains because I just downed some pasta not too long ago. It wants me to walk it over to the sink to soak before the red sauce hardens, but instead I am choosing to let it be and sit on this desk. I think it’s something to do with my repressed rebellious spirit. Sorry bowl.

In the living room are two dogs bored to death. They are trying to sleep, I think, but I keep them up with my incesent internet ramblings and tapa-tapas on the keyboard. Is it keyboard? That sounds like a musical instrument. Whatever.

I can’t wait to go home for the holidays. I have so many plans with my family, but I know I’ll be doing like three out of my 20 ideas, and that’s okay. That’s okay. As long as I get to have some time with them.

My roommate sure has a lot of weird statues around the house. It took me a while to get used to the skeletons, but I just casually looked towards the lamp and realized that the Don Quixote figurines look pretty menacing. There’s a pudgy one, a tall one with a beard, and a medium sized one….holding cloth in his hands. They look like regular people and it creeps me out more than the skeletons.

Christmas postcards are all over the desk, and some are unopened. I wonder what they will say, but I am glad I don’t have to go through the trouble of opening them. I wonder if people expect a holiday card when they give one out. Wait, was is it about holiday cards anyways? A bunch of them have babies and families smiling kind of together…that’s weird. I wonder if I’ll ever get to that stage in my life, where I have to take a family portrait and mail it to people so to remind them who I am, and of course, that I’ve had children. Hmmm…Christmas cards are weird.

Okay, I better close this entry up before I start talking about real personal things. Goodnight Reader, this has been a pretty weird experiment. But look at all the potential writing material I have:

(Still buzzed btw, I’m such a light weight)

1. Staying at home during the holidays

2. Talking to dogs

3. Watching television as a hobby (making Barbara Walters your mother in your head)

4. The strangeness of XMAS/HOLIDAY cards

5. Roommates and their quirks

6. Frost….and a heater

7. Pasta, and having nightmares when you eat late at night

8. Dogs farting in the living room

9. What? ….fill in the blank.

I’m done.


To be continued…


The Experiment

People in blog world, today I was part of a clinical study. And not because I am clinically insane. No, no. The study shows how contact lenses fit, and how the shape of our eyes (in micro sense) determine the appropriate fit for our eyes.

I don’t wear contact lenses, and apparently my eyes are more than a 20/20 vision. In other words, I was utterly useless in the study, but I went in and got my ten bucks anyways.

You know, I will be the first to admit that I don’t get check-ups regularly. I don’t see the doctor as often as I should. And I personally hate the smell of probable death around me. However, in my few years of living in this peculiar world I have never encountered the — “Cold Doctor” until today. The “Cold Doctor” is usually a medical person who is so engulfed in their work, that they act like robots and don’t treat you like a person.

There were two of them, today.

The first was a woman. She took down my information and made me sign some forms in case I died in the process, my family can’t sue — that kind of stuff. The second doctor was the one doing the research. He had an accent, but smiled a lot to make me comfortable. They were both relatively young.

I sat there in his office, while he projected images in my eyes and examined my cornea…or whatever, I don’t know what he was doing, but the little house on the prairie kept appearing and disappearing. It was really annoying, but that was the point. He noticed my torso stretched uncomfortably, so he lowered the table. I said, “Thank you.”

He said, “Sure.” And we both laughed gently because it was awkward, etc. etc. etc. However, our little interaction caused some attention down the hall where the female doctor sat at her desk, where I last saw her.

Now Reader, you must know that as writers we can sometimes be inspired by the smallest details. My inspiration had a dry spell these last couple of days, but this was too juicy to pass. So I tested my theory (we writers think we’re unofficial psychologists) and decided to ask him to lower the table a little more. He did. I said, “Thank you.”

Again we both laughed awkwardly. I swear, it was like an interaction between a little boy and his pet rat. Lab rat, more like it. But the sound of us laughing triggered some loud coughing down the hall…from the female doctor.


I imagine that she is in love with the optometrist sitting next to me.

This was confirmed (in my sick imagination) by her coming towards the room with a phone in her hands. “You have a call from Dr. ______, she wants to know if you are finished with the ______.” He took the call abruptly. The person on the other line must have been very important.

The lady doctor lingered and looked at me. while she waited for the phone. I don’t know what she thought we were doing (awkward laughing is all). I mean, she managed to creep up right as I was sneaking in a butt scratch (while the male doctor looked away). It kind of confirmed my suspicion.

After the study was done, the male doctor went back to his study typing up some numbers on his computer. The female doctor walked me to a separate room, and informed me of my perfect vision. I sensed a taste of disdain in her delivery. Then we went to the front desk, and I got my money. I am a picky writer, and I needed to test one more thing.

“Excuse me,” I asked her, “is there a website or a place where we can see what this study is being used for?”


“Oh, well…is there a presentation of the study-”

Another doctor responded, “Yes, he is going to present in a couple of weeks!”

“That’s great! Can participants attend?”

The lady doctor looked at me with suspicious eyes and spoke, “There is no website for the study.”

“Well, thank you for your time.” I said.

I may have been their subject, but doctor love was the experiment.