Dear Mr Hemingway

‘There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.’

Ernest Hemingway.


I try for blood but sometimes I can’t find the vein.

Or I nick something and ooze green, as though I am descended of insect-kind and not a person at all.

Some days writing is more like vomiting. Too much that comes out I recognize. I poke through carrots and peas and taste the bile.

Tonight I am made of paper, folded, refolded, over and over. Every inch of me bloodless.

Open a window and let the wind invite me out.

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