Hemingway Style 소설 & 이야기

When Ernest hemingway said: There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. He was right. He was absolutely right. My music box is up to its highest volume, blasting J.cole, the soft tune of his for your eyes only caresses my eardrums. It shuts out the real noise—silence that is so silent it's loud and eerie. I write better like this, with songs in my ear and bass pulsing through my room. But today not even J.cole can save me.

There it was again. Steel. Blood. Human. The arrow lowered, slow and deliberate. “What is it?” Hemingway asked behind him, his voice hushed, amused. “Letting her go, are we?” Harry didn’t answer. He was still sniffing, his brow drawn low. “You don’t smell that?” he muttered. Hemingway smirked. “Smell what? Regret?” Harry shot him a look, sharp as a blade. “I’m not joking.” That wiped the grin from Hemingway’s face. He tilted his head and sniffed. Once. Twice.