Hemingway committed suicide in 1961, at the age of 61, in his home in Ketchum, Idaho. Pain plagued the respected writer throughout his life, which is perhaps why his work remains lasting. He placed his emotions into his work. Every tragedy, every jealousy, every hurt. He opened old wounds and bled for his writing. A sign of a true writer.
Poetic, isn’t it? Although medieval alchemists believed in the possibility of changing lead into gold, today we know this to be an impossibility. Alchemy seems more tangible in the hands of writers. With our imaginations, we mold thoughts into stories. We create people and stories from nothingness. We pull from the air. At least it sometimes seems this way.
If you believe in God, you might agree with this quote. Or you might call it blasphemy. I call it truth. Sometimes, when staring at a blank page, it feels as if you’re being mocked. Mocked, because you’re creativity isn’t pouring through. Perhaps this is God teaching us writers a lesson. It’s as if he’s saying, “Not so easy, huh?”