There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.<\/em><\/p>\n Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.<\/em><\/p>\n The best way to find out if you can trust anybody is to trust them.<\/em><\/p>\n All you have to do is write a true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.<\/em><\/p>\n The first draft of anything is shit.<\/em><\/p>\n This isn’t my stuff, you know.<\/p>\n These are Hemingway quotes. And maybe like a lot of people, he’s been one of those writers you sort of know for so long that you can’t decide if he’s any good or not.<\/p>\n I read Fiesta when I was about twenty-four, only a bit younger than the character with the mysterious wound would probably have been, if it was set in the 1920s and he’d got shot wherever he’d got shot (Vimy Ridge, if you’ll pardon the expression?) in the Great War. Just to clarify, it was alternatively titled The Sun Also Rises,<\/a> about a man who keeps coming across some English posh totty in Paris. Except he can’t seem to actually do that. And she isn’t sure she wants him to either, but she’s also not really sure she doesn’t and they sort of go on holiday with their friends except she’s not really with<\/em> him you know, you do know that, I mean\u00a0we had this talk, didn’t we? We said. And all the usual blah that anyone in their early twenties who drinks too much in a city can relate to. I loved that book.<\/p>\nFiesta<\/h4>\n