Recently, I’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about all kinds of lives I don’t lead. In today’s over-exposed world (of which I am a full participant), it’s easy to look at other people’s lives (at least the version of it they reveal) and covet, covet, covet. And lately, I have been coveting the life of a writer.
I’ve come to realize it’s mostly because in order for a writer to have something to write about, they must live without boundaries. I know there are plenty exceptions to this rule, but perhaps I should clarify that the writers whose lives I’ve been coveting are living (or did live) extraordinary lives. Ok, ok. I’ll be honest here, I’m mostly talking about Ernest Hemingway.
I recently finished The Paris Wife and have since been gobbling up every drop of Hemingway I can find.
The man was fearless. And while I’m sure he had a fear of failure, he never let it stop him. It’s so hard to not let that fear overcome you.
So, on the brink of my entrance into law school, let it be known that most days I want to run away to Paris and drink in cafes and write fearlessly.