Write One True Sentence

 We watched a documentary about Ernest Hemingway the other night. I would not recommend it unless you are a real depression junky. Learning about his immensely dysfunctional family, with his father, brother and sister all suicides, did clarify why suicide probably struck him as a normal, possibly expected exit strategy for one’s life. 

I much prefer the fictionalized Hemingway we meet through Cory Stoll's depiction in the 2011 film Midnight in Paris. Stoll's Hemingway was a tough but eloquent advocate of clean precise "manly" prose. But hidden in the real Hemingway's macabre world view, lurks a possible hint of Hem's “self-erraticating” perspective which arose from an unlikely revelation in the documentary - Hemingway’s philosophy of writing.

Apparently when Hemingway found himself, as all writers inevitably must, confronting the monstrous challenge of a blank page his remedy was this: “Write one true sentence, and the rest will follow.” Write one true sentence? My god, no wonder the man killed himself. Think about this sublime, but chronically depressed, advocate of "Write clearly," "Use short sentences," "Make your first paragraph short," trying to follow his own advice. Even imagine our less talented, but better balanced selves, facing that empty page, and hearing the echo of Hem’s advice - “Write one true sentence!” Perhaps the best, truest, response would be: “I cannot do that.”

“And why not?” The Hem in our head might inquire.  Well, Hem, because to assert that we can write one true sentence strongly implies that the sentence possesses a kind of eternal verity. That, by being the one true sentence, it would always be true.

Life itself argues against such a sentence. The one true sentence that flows from our pen today will be almost certainly be betrayed if not tomorrow, then next week, next year, or next decade. That assertion does not mean to question the veracity of the sentence as we compose it, but rather seeks to realize that maintaining the constant truth of any one true sentence lies beyond our meager ability.

Heraclitus said “The only constant in life is change.” And before we say “Ah, ha! There is one true sentence!” consider the research being done in cryogenics, aimed at freezing sick folks to stop all change until a cure can be found. That attempt to arrest change seems as yet unsuccessful. 

Heraclitus is far more often proved right than wrong. Change does seem to be the dominant constant in our lives, and because we live our lives in states of constant change, the very condition of truth is also subject to constant change, making our ability to write one true sentence impossible.

Whew, that felt good.

Obviously if we edit Hemingway’s challenge to read “Write a sentence that is true in your world at this time.” We open the door to “the earth is the center of the universe,” “the earth is flat,” “I believe all people are good,” "No one will ever run a mile is less than 4 minutes,” “Humans will never walk on the moon.” Insert your own example of a true sentence that has fallen by the wayside. 

I think that attempting to meet that edited challenge would get most authors past the dreaded “blank page freeze.” But that is not what Hemingway asked of us. He said “Write one true sentence.”

And what happens when an obsessive, perfectionist, depressed author like Hemingway realizes that there is no way to do that? Most of us would, hopefully, think “Oh, you mean like true right now? OK.” And we would move on to sentences two, three, four, etc, perhaps of varying veracity, but engaging fiction. Unfortunately, given Hemingway’s family history, and personal demons, his response to such a literary impasse was to reach for a shotgun.

So what does that mean for us as creative human beings who feel the urge to create something but are faced with the equivalent of a blank page? Here are some suggestions:

List your favorite words. With them, write a beautiful sentence, or one that makes you laugh, or cry.

Describe the world outside your window.

Fill a page with a loopy scribble, color in the loops.

Write down the names of all your teachers and the grades or subjects they taught.

Write down the names of every pet you ever had.

None of these exercises will necessarily lead you to the great American novel. But they might lead you somewhere interesting. Perhaps the best you can hope for on any one day is a limerick or two. But that is OK. At least it will keep the shotgun in the closet. And, why, pray tell, is there a shotgun in your closet anyway? For crying out loud.  .  .  .