The Importance of Being Ernest Hemingway

Novice Writer's Novice Novel

About 1860 words

The Importance of Being Ernest Hemingway

By James Foley

It happened at a Maryland yacht club after Labor Day, when summer lingers. Philip Wright was adjusting lines aboard his forty-something-foot sailing schooner. Suddenly dark-haired Adrienne Racine called from the dock, "You're publishing a novel?"

That Saturday was stormy, and this bold belle's voice battled the wailing wind: "Alex Gooding told my uncle. He's your agent, right? He goes sailing with you? We're new here."

Before Philip could answer, she'd climbed, uninvited, aboard his boat. She'd recently arrived like a disoriented explorer. Charmingly she'd wander the docks as if searching for her lost home, her paradise. Philip fantasized her as from another galaxy. Alpha Centauri? Her space ship had let her out on the wrong planet?

But now Philip's Android phone was signaling a caller: Claudia Fletcher, Philip's blonde society friend, reminding him: "Tomorrow at eleven, Philip. Remember?"

"I'll be there, Claudia."

"And, by the way, congratulations. Alex told us about the book deal. Why didn't you call and tell me yourself?"

"It's not firm, Claudia. They're proposing some weird conditions."

"Well, Alex seems excited about it. And he knows publishing."

#

Ringing off, Philip said to Adrienne, "Your uncle's boat's the Martha Ann, right?"

"Yeah, named after my aunt. Hemingway had a power boat too. But I like sailing. But I've never been sailing."

"That's sad."

"Would you take me?"

"Well, yeah—sometimes, maybe."

"Not now?"

Philip glanced at her shoes. Boating shoes, but he laughed and shook his head. "See those trees blowing? There's a gale out there. It'll even be dangerous."

"Okay. Next Saturday? Or Sunday?"

"Sorry. On Monday this boat's being hauled for a refitting, possibly for a month."

"Let's go today then. Are you scared?"

"No."

"If you do this, I'll read every story you write."

"Do that, and I'll take you to Paris, or the moon."

"Let's go sailing first."

#

Philip wondered if he or she or both were crazy—their first date, going to a storm? Out there, at sea, the flashing and splashing tempest began thrashing and crashing and smashing their bouncing sailboat. But Adrienne seemed thrilled. Clinging to a starboard shroud, she shouted happily as the howling northeaster flagged her raven hair: "What's your book about, Philip?"

"Uh . . . well, political conspiracy, skimming enormous profits. But with yachting and love scenes. So, the publisher wants a romance novel."

"And you won't write that?"

"I don't know. I may have to."

"Don't do it. Don't give in," Adrienne cried. "Please! Don't cater to popular sensationalism. I love early Hemingway, but he got commercialized."

They could see, far out in the Atlantic, a large tanker heaving and flailing—a violent spectacle: mucho sea-drama, as Adrienne exclaimed, "I feel sick. Please, Philip, don't get commercialized like Hemingway."