Sunday, June 14, 2015
In my ceaseless, Ancient Mariner wanderings of the Internet (this makes you "one of three"- the whole poem is available at your local library) I came across a clever app called The Hemingway Editor, which, as far as I can tell, is specifically designed to edit one's prose so that it is as completely different from my own as is humanly possible. Coincidentally someone just donated a book of Hemingway's poems, and I opened it to read a poem, thinking that maybe I could mock it somehow, but no, it was a pretty good poem that made me think: What a terse, concise writer- who we should all model ourselves after, and surely would, if only there were a helpful app that turned all one's long, convoluted sentences peach-colored as a warning.
Which brings us very quickly back around to where there actually is such an app and I am using it now to see how poor a grade I can get on it partly because I am contrary when it comes to writing and partly because I believe firmly that there is no proper way to write; no advice, no lessons to be learned from history, no apps to help one, no rules, no wisdom, no one to emulate, nothing but a will to be understood and the vast, flailing attempts to do so, which, in the end, are all hopeless anyway.
Every sentence I have written you here on the Hemingway app is now peach colored, or mauve, or whatever their color is, and though I have not used as many adverbs as I'd like (which turn fetchingly sky blue) I am nevertheless satisfied that my lowest possible score refutes all the virtues of the Internet.