When I was in tenth grade English, Hemingway deceived me.
The novel The Old Man and the Sea was super thin and, glancing at the first page, I found language so simple it was almost child-like. From that information, I drew two wrong conclusions about my required reading: First, that I was bound to enjoy it and second, that I could easily read the entire novel in an hour or two.
Having overwhelming pressure from other classes, I made a desperate decision. I would read The Old Man and the Sea the night before the test. But when that night came, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I found the simple sentences boring. I could not relate to the main character or see significance in any of his actions. My eyelids kept falling. I was not a coffee drinker, so I turned to my best friend for restoring alertness in a crisis: chocolate.
In the kitchen an unopened package of chocolate bars awaited. One chocolate bar jolted me back to alertness and I was able to read a few pages easily, but the boost wore of quickly and my energy nosedived.
Not good. Not good at all. I was trying to maintain a straight A average, but the more I read The Old Man and the Sea, the more I cursed Hemingway and his deceptively simple writing style.
The less I approved of Hemingway, the more enamored of chocolate I became until finally, I had polished off all six chocolate bars. My 105-pound body protested the massive sugar blast. My forehead throbbed. My fingers trembled. My facial muscles twitched. And despite all I had eaten, a strange, queasy, hollow feeling settled into my stomach. I blamed it all on Hemingway and his minimalism.
I turned every page without fully absorbing the content. By the time I went to bed in the early morning hours of the next day, I reviewed in my mind what I knew about the book from all my reading: “There was a man, a boy, and a fish. Chaos ensues.”
Needless to say, I did not do well on the test. For many years I thought of Hemingway as the vile miscreant who had turned my most loyal ally chocolate against me. Minimalism indeed.
But there was no escaping Hemingway. Years later, in college, I had to read his short story “Hills like White Elephants.” Though initially I groaned, this time, after turning a couple of pages, I was not bored. I read the story again, fascinated. Not a word could have been taken from the story without rupturing it. It was like Hemingway had sliced off a section of reality, trimmed off the excess, and shaped it to perfection, but in order to do that, he had to make the situation speak for itself. Though he used words to present the drama, the words were not the “important” part. The human drama was, and the words were there only to serve it. The story was a masterpiece of minimalism.
But I hated minimalism. Didn’t I? I had to concede that maybe I hadn’t been fair to Hemingway in high school. Maybe my headache, sleep deprivation, deadline pressure, and chocolate overdose had biased me – a little.
Later on I changed my mind about other authors, too. In another class, when I force-fed myself The Awakening by Kate Chopin the night before a test, I seriously considered bequeathing it to my cat to shred, but years later I read the book when I had adequate time and loved it. In fact, it was one of the best books I had ever read. Had I been a reviewer I might have written “Insightful! Illuminating! Lyrical!”
The book had not changed. I had. I am making this point because writers put a lot of stock into the words of critics, including readers, in evaluating whether fiction is good or bad. We know writing is subjective, yet usually we think of subjectivity as being only about tastes that vary from individual to individual – as if those tastes were immutable.
That is not to say that books are never negatively reviewed for good reasons, but the subjectivity rabbit hole goes deep, more than most people imagine. Personal tastes are a big part of what drives emotional responses to a story, but I wonder how many critics have given good books bad reviews because they were under stringent deadline pressure or had heartburn.
All the more reason not to over-depend on the opinions of critics or any reader. I stand by what I have said many times: Write what you want to read, not what you think others will want to read.
But there is still no escaping subjectivity. Sometimes I dislike my writing for the same reasons I hated Hemingway, such as having a headache or feeling pressured. The same is true if I am in a noisy environment, tired, or depressed, factors which have nothing at all to do with the writing itself but which can cause me to abhor my writing after loving it the day before.
Criticism is subjective not just from person to person, but from moment to moment.
I intend to remember that if I ever need to rationalize a scathing book review. I can tell myself: Well, obviously the reviewer was not having a good day; he probably got a traffic ticket hours before reading my book or ate too much chocolate, or not nearly enough.
In fairness to Hemingway, maybe someday I will give The Old Man and the Sea another chance, during a time when I am well-rested and calm, and have non-stratospheric blood sugar levels.
Meanwhile, I will continue to write for myself, especially since people are fickle and opinions, unreliable. But as I suggested, I am fickle too. My impression of my own writing is subject to change from day to day, and from moment to moment.
Which leads to the question: If I can love my writing one day and hate it the next, which Me is right: past Me or present Me? To determine “who” is right, I have to first eliminate biasing variables like headaches, blaring televisions, and pre-existing bad moods. I could also eliminate positive biasing factors, such as “just ate a freshly baked cookie,” though dismissing happy variables is not nearly as appealing. And if I am still fickle?
I recently had an idea: turn it into a numbers game. After eliminating the known “biasing variables,” if I read what I have written and love it three out of five separate times, then I can say, “It is official. I like this enough to share it.”
Subjectivity is so messy. I like the idea of turning my feelings about a written piece into a neat formula. At least, Present Me approves. Future Me…not so sure. When I make it to the Future, I will make a point to ask her.
If you enjoyed this post you might like my other writing. Take a moment and sign up for my free starter library. Click here. Also my new novel \”The Ghosts of Chimera\” will soon be published by the folks over at Rooster and Pig Publishing.