I learned something interesting about Ernest Hemingway (or, as a Cuban friend says, “Ernesto Emenguey’) when I toured his home on the outskirts of Havana last year.
Actually, I learned a few interesting things.
He had a room especially for cats (the live ones– he also had lots of taxidermied animals he’d killed on various safari excursions)–and rumor has it there were dozens of them. “Imaginate el apeste,” Francisco’s son said when we learned this fact. “Imagine the stink.”
He kept a running record of his weight in a list penciled on the wall of his bathroom.
And–this is the detail I intended to start with–he preferred to write standing up.
Soon, I might be just like Hemingway. Sitting down for extended periods of time (and that’s essentially what my work involves–sitting down at a desk I love, writing all day long) is becoming uncomfortable, so I’ll be needing to find a viable alternative sooner rather than later.
But don’t worry– I don’t anticipate designating a room in our home for cats.