What A Novel Excerpt - Desperately Seeking Suicide

A writer writes, right? Bullshit. A writer finishes. And doesn't use atrocious puns for titles. Not too often, anyway. Moving on.

Writing, for me, has always been a lot like dating. In both instances you invest time and energy to pursue an unknown end that will either delight or destroy. Sometimes an oddly satisfying combination of the two. The only certainty is that you'll never stumble across anything worthwhile unless you explore every opportunity—even if it seems like nothing at the time.

Short, Hard and Just Six Long

Ernest Hemingway—aside from being an impossibly narcissistic bastard, rampaging alcoholic, chronic womanizer and full-time jackass—was [sigh] a brilliant writer and a master storyteller. His greatest strength just happens to be my greatest weakness—the man could hold his liquor. Alright, not really. Although, scotch for scotch, I'm betting Ernest-o could soundly drink me under the table, and then some.

Unfortunately my digression evidences my originally intended point perfectly.

All alliteration and adverbs aside, Hemingway's strength was his relentless commitment to efficient prose. He did not waste a single word—he was the consummate literary tightwad. For example, he once wrote a story that was just six words long: Baby shoes: for sale, never used. Hemingway [supposedly] regarded it as his best work. Told you he was a narcissistic bastard.

Allow me to rebut with a six-word story of my own: Yes. The man can write. Bastard.

Please continue dear reader because, trust me, you have no idea where I'm actually going with this.