Category Archives: Writing

My Mom

My Driver’s Ed cars were a Chevy Caprice Classic and Chevy Impala. My mom’s car was a 1973 VW Super Beetle. My mom never let me drive her car until the day of my driving test. I learned to drive with an automatic transmission. I drove off to take my driver’s test having never driven a stick before. I stalled it getting out of the driveway and I stalled it all the way down the street. But, I passed my driving test within the hour. My mom was laughing at me driving away, but when I returned with my license she was pissed off.

From Hemingway piece

I believe Hemingway surveyed his literary history and then carefully chose the influences he would need to become the writer he wanted to be. Today the American tradition continues in that post-modern writers are either choosing Hemingway as a literary predecessor or are seeking the intellectual means with which to divorce themselves from his lineage.

Jeffrey Meyers notes that Hemingway “followed a Renaissance tradition of always going to the expert teachers to absorb what he wanted to know”. He traveled and lived, then studied and wrote about each new adventure and wonderful place. Hemingway showed the people of the world what he had found, so they could fall in love with it too. Marlin fishing off Key West and Cuba, bullfighting in Spain, and African Safari for the same animals he fell in love with at the Field Museum in Chicago when he was a boy.

By setting such a strong male role model, is it any wonder that the feminist movement attacked Hemingway, who died in 1961, and couldn’t then defend himself? The attack of the scholarly ranks began the dissection of Hemingway’s work primarily on the basis of its gender issues.


The complete novelist would come into the world with a catalog of qualities something like this. He would own the concentration of a Trappist monk, the organizational ability of a Prussian field marshall, the insight into human relations of a Viennese psychiatrist, the discipline of a man who prints the Lord’s Prayer on the head of a pin, the exquisite sense of timing of an Olympic gymnast, and by the way, a natural instinct and flair for exceptional use of language.

Leon Uris


When I was growing up the Vietnam War was on TV every single day. We ate TV dinners on portable tables made for the task. Body counts, combat deaths, propaganda, and manipulation were an every day experience. A kid moved in across the street and we would play together until my mom found out that the reason there was no father present was because he was flying B-52’s in Vietnam. I was never allowed to cross the street again. When the Tet Offensive happened in January 1968 we were soon told by the press that it was an unwinnable war. I asked my mom how they could predict the future like that and got my ass beat for not just believing what I was being told. Over the years I have met many Vietnam Vets and cherish the friendships that I still have with many of them. I have watched many movies about the war and I wish I had had a chance to fight in Vietnam. That being said, I am not a fan of accusing people of murder in any combat situation. Nobody knows what is on everybody’s plate or what their entire mission involves. Like the movie Apocalypse Now stated: accusing people of murder in Vietnam is like passing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.



I self-identify as a Poet. I hear this goes well with Memoir and other non-fiction type forms. My problem with writing seems to be that I do not want to lose control of what I am doing and the fact that I wrote next to nothing in junior high, high school, and by testing out of college I also avoided a lot of the writing need there as well. If I am a writer, I am a writer who hasn’t written a whole hell of a lot. If I am a Poet, I am a Poet by birthright and by temperament. Perhaps I just need to let go?