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…


Ernest Hemingway lived here

A few days ago, I wandered into a small town within the Latin Quarter of gay Paris. In that town, between a mosque and the Pantheon, I found Ernest Hemingway’s old pad.

Hemingway happens to be one of my favorite American writers—mainly because of his memorable quotes that are great for all writers (aspiring and/or experienced) to read. Have you read any of his work? His stuff is fearless, in a way, and it is also a complicated style that can be interpreted in multiple ways. Well, it’s complicated for a lot of other reasons. For one thing, some critics consider him to be a sexist writer; a male-chauvinist to be exact. It’s hard to dispute that argument because of the way he portrayed some of the women in his stories. However, (and this—I think—overshadows this negative perception of him) —- Hemingway was simplicity at its finest.

What does that mean? Well, Reader, it means that if at first glance his work might come off as repetitive, later it can reveal itself to be beautiful and full of technique. The man is memorable, quotable, and thanks to Woody Allen’s recent interpretation of him in Midnight in Paris — we can all imagine how incredibly charismatic and seductive he can be with his syntax.  Although, the character in the film was a satirical view on Hemingway, I tend to believe Woody is capability of grasping the essence of this man/writer/legend/person…etc. etc. etc.  Let’s not forget that he was handsome back then too.

All in all, the man knew how to tell a compelling story. In my imaginary world, if you were to cut Hemingway’s flesh he would bleed ink.     Okay, now I will stop drooling and admiring  and just say PICK UP  A BOOK if you haven’t already, and get to know this author.

Here are some clever Hemingway quotes.

* * *

Oh, Paris, you never disappoint. Ernest Hemingway lived in that building, he probably smoked a cigarette outside that door, leaned on that wall, took a leak somewhere around that corner, and walked up those stairs.   He was there, and, for a couple of minutes, I got to live in that space. I stood there wishing that I would somehow grasp onto one of his muses. Hopefully, she has been diligently waiting somewhere in that building for someone like me. Someone to latch onto. If I were Hemingway’s muse, I know I’d sure be missing him by now.

Writer’s Block

I’ve got a case of the writer’s block y’all. It’s really starting to freaking annoy me. I’ve started about five posts, stopped mid sentence, and said to myself, “This is SH*T!”     So today, Reader, I ran away from my temporary home (my mom’s house) and came to my favorite hole in the wall in Temple City: Boba Express. It’s a quaint boba/coffee shop next to an old fashioned barber shop on Las Tunas Drive. A fun escape from all that is…well, familiar. Also, a good forty five to fifty miles away from my mother’s place. I love my mom, but sometimes she…well, sometimes she wants grandchildren and since I am not able to provide her with such right now, she focuses on making me look pregnant by feeding me all types of delicious greasy Peruvian stuff. I ran away. Away I ran.

I’m here now, drinking a Coconut Milk Tea Boba and chilling in the shade. Every now and then a gentle breeze comes through the back door and caresses my face. It’s a nice feeling. A very nice feeling, especially because the San Fernando Valley feels like the surface of the sun today! Aren’t we supposed to be getting rain soon? Gah…

Anyways, back to the reason I am writing (my personal drama). I think I have writer’s block because I am genuinely concerned about my future with writing. I mean, what do you plan on doing with your life? Writing? What does that mean? What are you writing about? Blah blah! And then there’s my novel. Is it based on a character, or are you trying to write an anthem? It’s like I’m getting spooked out of my own creativity.

Mainly, the most haunting question looming in the corners of my brain is WILL I HAVE A CAREER IN WRITING? Will I? Sometimes I tell myself that as long as I keep writing, and as long as I work through the writers block — something good will come out of it.     I should just keep venting to this blog because at least in my head, I know there’s some crazy a$$ woman out there who is also obsessed with aliens and afraid of writing about what she loves.

But you know what Reader? I’ve been hard on myself. I think we writers can sometimes be too much. We want to take a big bite, and sometimes, we’re not ready for the big bite. I think right now I have to take smaller bites, chew comfortably until the right answers emerge in my mouth like fun little flavors in a chocolate bar. Flavors that will inevitably settle down to give me the right answers. My imagination runs away from me sometimes, and in my naivete I came here to day, to this boba place to escape. I thought, maybe if I run after it to Boba Express, me and my creativity might meet up. I’d be like, Hey Creativity, it’s been a while. Come have  seat with me! Then I would proceed to swallow my creativity in order to trap it inside of me always. She hasn’t shown up. No luck! However, I am enjoying this refreshing drink.

Sometimes, Reader, I forget to celebrate the small things in life. These small things are what make us who we ARE: weird a$$ people with awkward social skills to boot.

I mean, right now I have an audience of about one to four on a daily basis. Isn’t that enough? Why must I be such a selfish little Peruvian creeper? As long as I reach some, that should be enough, for now. The point is to connect with a reader, Reader. Am I right? Tell me if I’m wrong.

No you’re not wrong! (<–talking to myself again) Damn straight. We writers need to take pride in our small successes and work through the things that discourage us to continue our progress. Life sometimes can interrupt our flow: bills, rent, work, drama, rejections, relationships, alien abductions, etc. These things can chip away at our soul on a daily basis, but in the end — we have to do it. We have to write. I’ve had writer’s block for about five days now—and quite frankly, it’s gross. Like, I want to throw up at how much time my creativity has decided to be away from me. It’s probably because I bragged about working on the third chapter of my novel to someone a few days ago. I have instant karma like that—but whatever. I should celebrate the fact that at least I started five posts with five unfinished sentences the past five days. That’s how Hemingway did it anyways (or at least that was a rumor I heard). He would stop writing his pieces mid sentence, in order to have something to complete the next day.  That’s a good tactic. Now time to work through the block. Ugh, this is so painful.