Always find time for silence

Only once eyes are shut can Jack be sure that he is free. He types away on the laptop, the screen providing the only light to the room. His thoughts sound better when they are on the page. His bedroom acts as his study for the time being, while he tries to make ends meet working a sales job.

The walls of his bedroom are covered distinctly. One wall has a flag that is Jean-Michel Basquiat's art. The other has 1000 of the top movies check list beside an ancient world map calendar. Behind his laptop screen, the backdrop to his creative space, is a wall filled with faces. There are pictures and quotes of his heroes. Black and white photos of Hemingway, Bourdain, Kahlo, Baldwin, and many others. Their words remind Jack of the path he is on.

The door to his room flies open, light pouring in around a black silhouette of a man. Jack turns puzzlingly to the figure in the doorway. He is terrified in the split second as he realizes it is not one of his roommates but an intruder. The intruder is dressed strangely. He wears a loose white shirt, cabana shorts, and palm tree sandals.

"Get up," says the silhouette in an older man's voice.

"Who are you?" Jack questions.

The figure flips on the light switch. A man with a large white beard and white wild hair stands in Jack's doorway.

"Who are you?" repeats Jack, more shakily this time.

"Don't act dumb, Jack." He looks sternly into Jack's eyes. Jack thinks he looks to be made of stone. He breathes and talks, and that's the only sign of life. "Get your shoes on. Let's go," he turns and walks out. Jack is not sure what is happening, but he knows when Ernest Hemingway comes knocking, one must heed the call.

***

"What are you working on, Jack?" His face is red and his skin is tan. Despite his old age, there is a glimmer in his eyes.

"I was editing my second book."

"How's the first one go?"

"It was good. I wrote it in a summer."

"Good. Write when the passion comes, for it does not always appear. Always write with passion, Jack."

"This second book has been tougher. It's taken two years. I know it will be good, but it took a lot out of me."

Hemingway shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling. "The second one is always the most bitched. The second is where you learn to be a writer. Are you a writer, Jack?"

"I think so."

"You either are or you aren't, Jack." He takes a sip of his beer.

"I am. I just don't give it the time it deserves. It's so hard to make that time. It's like I have too much freedom." Jack takes a small sip of his beer.

"Writers write, Jack. It's that simple." Every time he speaks, he looks directly into Jack's eyes.

"I know, I know. I will do better. I'm almost done with the second one. It's been all editing recently. I hate editing. Only got one more week left, though. Then my publisher will give it one last look through, and I can publish." Jack begins to look around the bar. He notices no one cares who he is with. No one seems to recognize who Hemingway is.

"You're not an editor, Jack, you're a writer. We writers must edit by way of writing. You been editing by way of writing?"

"More than I did with my first book. But I could do better."

"You must do better. Your writing is like a flame that you gotta feed. You feed the flame by writing. Editing is necessary, but like with most things, it's about the how. Write, rewrite, and rewrite some more. That will do you good."

"Do I need to start over?"

"The second book? No. Cast this line out, Jack. If you catch nothing or you catch the big one, it makes no difference. We're writers, Jack, we don't care about numbers. It's all about the story for us. Don't fall for the numbers, Jack. Everyone will tell you it is about the numbers, it's not; it's about the stories."

"I want to tell as many stories as I can. I truly do. God, I hate editing. I need to remember I'm a writer, not an editor."

"That's the spirit."

They both order more beers.

"What else, got anything else for me?" Hemingway asks calmly, his face like stone.

"I don't think so. I'm not sure I want to ask you too many questions."

"And why is that?"

"I don't want the answers to be given to me. I want to find out myself."

For the first time, Hemingway grins. "Damn, you really are a writer."

Jack smiles softly and shrugs. "I do love it."

Hemingway nods and continues to drink his beer. They both enjoy the silence between them. They watch the people in the bar.

"Something came to mind."

"What's that, Jack?"

"How are you here? You died like sixty years ago."

Hemingway smirks and puts his hand on Jack's shoulder. "Jack, we writers," he pauses, searching for the write words. "We must have a reason. Our reason is that we, deep inside, all want to live forever, through our writing. I may have died, Jack, but you, you have given me life." He leans back and grits his teeth, fighting back the emotion. "Jack, I-I." He begins to speak while moving his hands. "You don't know the good you are doing, reading my stuff and whatnot. I'm thankful."

Jack didn't expect it to go this way. It confuses him. He feels that the thanks are all his.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you for coming to me and talking over some beers."

"Anytime, kid."

Jack finishes what's left in his glass. The room is beginning to get louder as more people file into the bar. His buzz begins to increase, and the heat in his chest increases.

"One last thing for you, Jack," Hemingway says softly.

Jack leans in to hear and stares into the older man's eyes.

"Always find time for silence."