The Writer, His Wife and “It’s Hardly Hemingway.”
By: Bridget Webber
Tags: Hemingway, Humor, Writer, Fiction, Short Story

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Edwin, why are you wearing a crimson velvet tunic, paisley silk scarf, and summer shirt? You’re not struggling to be a dandy again are you dear?”

Edwin the writer: “You’re right. I should be in my safari suit like Hemingway.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “But I assumed you were about to write dear, not shoot defenseless animals.”

Edwin the writer: “I’m setting the scene. You know… Getting in the frame of mind to compose a classic. Actors do it all the time. If I look like a distinguished novelist, I’ll write like one.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “You usually wear your pajamas and dressing gown though don’t you, and that seems to be okay.”

Edwin the writer: “Great writers don’t produce their best work while in bedclothes Gladys. They make sure they look the part. It stirs their muse.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Well I think you’re wrong dear. I bet Walt Whitman wrote O Captain! My Captain! In his long johns. And Emily Dickinson was renowned for working in her onesie.”

Edwin the writer: “Why are your fingers crossed behind your back? You only do that to cancel a lie.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Modern writers, dear, do write in their PJ's. That’s the whole point of being an author isn’t it? You can look a sight and, as long as you refuse to Skype, nobody knows.”

Edwin the writer: “It’s not just the clothes Glad. I worry I’m not exciting enough to be a writer. I mean look at our lifestyle. It’s hardly Hemingway-worthy is it?”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “What do you mean dear?”

Edwin the writer: “Hemingway lived in Paris. He got a medal for valor in the Italian army and had amazing adventures. I make ornamental aircraft with tinfoil.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “It’s good to recycle though.”

Edwin the writer: “Oh Glad. How can I be expected to create a best seller if I’ve no interesting incidents to hark back to?”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “I don’t suppose J. K. Rowling really went to Hogwarts. She made it all up. Use your imagination.”

Edwin the writer: “Rowling based her characters on actual people.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “You know real people dear.”

Edwin the writer: “Oh yes. I suppose I do.”

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Why are you peering at me like that Ed?”

Edwin the writer: “You’ve inspired me Glad. I’m ready to begin.”

Veronica was a stout woman. Her varicose veins showed through her American tan tights. In the summer, she lolled on an orange floral sun lounger.

She could talk till the cows came home, so her brother-in-law pretended to be out when she visited. He spent many an afternoon making foil aircraft behind the locked door of the spare room.

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “You didn’t even change my sister’s name Edwin! What if she reads your story? Base your character on someone else dear.”

Edwin the writer: “I’ve thought of someone.”

She was past her prime, but still had a twinkle in her eye. Especially when she performed her favorite task of the day; keeping an eye on her husband. The second she heard his fingers tapping out his magic on the keyboard, she raced into his office as fast as a rat up a drainpipe.

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Yes dear. Hilarious.”

Edwin the writer: “Wait a moment. It gets better.”

When he wasn’t writing, she cleaned used foil ready for his hobby-craft and set it to dry on the garden table. On blustery days, she found a rock to weight it down.

Edwin’s Wife, Gladys: “Okay. I hear you. We should go out more. I’ll get my coat.”

Copyright © 2018 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved

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