Among writers, there is a popular anecdote frequently attributed to Hemingway:
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Ernest Hemingway
— Rachele Alpine (@ralpine) September 6, 2012
The other night I was thinking about this, and I wondered: What if that blood isn’t about suffering or death? What if it’s not about losing one’s life force, but rather extending it?
Maybe the key is to turn the blank page into a vein. Reroute your blood and share your heartbeat with the words on the page. Make your story a part of you, a new appendage.
I’m going to try it. I’m going to write my body into a million sentences, to fill the space between covers. I’m going to let people slip underneath my skin and read my pulse. I’m going to bleed my life onto the page.