I
admire Hemingway's writing and his iceberg principle. I know he hung
out in a bar in Havana and I would have loved to meet him for a quiet
chat. I have heard that he wrote standing up. Now that's kind of
weird, but whether you are standing up, sitting or lying down,
writing is hardly exciting to watch. Reader I will readily agree with
you: observing someone write is undeniably boring. What's important
is the process in the author's head and what's even more important is
his work. Where this process takes place is immaterial. Still, it is
one of the questions that have plagued me since adolescence.
Why
is it important to me? Do I want to have a mental picture? Do I
desire to mimic? Or is it something beyond that? The bottom line is I
don't care why
it's important to me, so why would you? What's interesting is that
this meaningless question, or its answer has been associated with
most authors I know. I was on a bus tour of Edinburgh the other day
and as I was staring out the window our tour guide pointed out a tea
and coffee shop called The
Elephant House.
Now what exciting thing could have happened there, in the midst of
historic Edinburgh? A meeting of great politicians or the planning of
a revolution? “That's where J K Rawling wrote her first Harry
Potter book,” said the mechanical voice. You see? My curiosity is
hardly unique.