Writing Room

Yesterday I spent a few hours in the Ernest Hemingway Home & Museum and got to see the room where he wrote more than half of his work, though he only lived there for about ten years on and off . His routine was to wake up at six am and work until he had 700 words or it was time for lunch. Then he went out to fish until happy hour and then he drank until he was tired. That was how he wrote most of his books. His writing room was only accessible via a catwalk from the main house, and no one ever went in there except for him. (It is now my life’s goal to have a private writing room only accessible by catwalk or maybe a ladder and fireman’s pole or maybe a zipline.)

Writing room is upstairs, buy shit downstairs.

The kind of sad part of this story is that now, underneath his writing room, there is a gift shop which sells obnoxious cat-related shit like ugly necklaces and book marks and fake cat poop. Also you can buy a moleskin notebook which will clearly be the first step to becoming the “next Hemingway.” His books are there too, but no one is really looking at them.

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