TUESDAY THOUGHTS: WHAT IS SUCCESS?

I’ve watched the Ken Burns special about Ernest Hemingway before, but I listened to the last segment again this morning as I went about my daily writing activities. I couldn’t help reflecting on the man, perhaps the most famous American author of the 20th century. Who wouldn’t hold him up as what an author should be and want his success?

Not me. Before you jump to conclusions, let me explain why.

He was an immensely talented writer, and no doubt deserves the acclaim given him, from massive bestsellers to collected documents and letters in a dozen libraries and museums worldwide to the prestigious Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954.

And above all, he was one of those rare people who was larger than life itself. But his personal story was a tragic one in many ways, in spite of his literary success. One might envy his writing skills, his immense popularity, and his achievements, but as a person, he had many issues in his life that no one would wish to copy. Married four times, he suffered from depression and other psychological issues, eventually requiring hospitalization several times. His life ended at his own hands—with a shotgun.

He was acclaimed for his often sparse, straightforward, and sometimes “painfully masculine” writing. It was a distinct change from the flowery and idealistic prose and poetry popular in the Victorian era. Much of what he wrote was inspired by his life’s pursuits, including as a decorated Red Cross driver in WWI, a member of the celebrated clique of American writers in Paris of the twenties, a sport fisherman in the Caribbean, and a bullfighting aficionado in Spain. He certainly lived large. But he always seemed to pay a price for it.

It seems to me that, especially later in Hemingway’s career, much of his success was a case of his works being popular because of who wrote them as much as the other way around. I don’t mean to criticize his work. There’s no question his brilliance shines through.

But looking at him as an author to emulate, I have to say my writing is different from Ernest’s style. “Painfully masculine” doesn’t work so well in my contemporary romance stories. I don’t even yearn for his popularity or financial success in terms of book sales. I doubt I’ll ever be on anyone’s bestseller list. That’s okay. I just want people to read my work, and if they like it and get something out of it, so much the better.

I’m not being spitefully critical of another author, certainly not because I’m jealous of him and his apparent success. What I am pointing out is that we as writers can learn from each other. Often, those are positive lessons, but sometimes they are negative. All are worthwhile, us writers and our lessons. Perhaps this realization is Hemingway’s most valuable contribution.

I will never match the anguish or fullness of his personal story, nor do I want to. I’m content with my quiet life. The few awards I’ve gotten are important to me only because they show I’m doing something right, and also for me to use in spreading the word about my books to others who might like them.

If I can live long enough to write my stories—most of them, at least—and have people read them, I’ll be a success. Nothing like Hemingway, of course—but I can live with that.