What Would Hemingway Have To Say About The Kardashians?

Can you imagine Ernest Hemingway with a blog? I was thinking that today, when I realized I hadn't updated this blog in awhile. I grew up in an era when writers weren't expected to post daily updates on what they ate for breakfast, who they saw in the supermarket checkout line, and what they really think about Kim Kardashian's latest outfit, so I forget to keep up with all my online responsibilities. I have accounts with Facebook, Twitter, Google Plus, Pinterest, and of course, this blog, so there's no excuse for me to be so anti-social, right? I should be posting updates every hour, with lots of pictures, video clips, and funny captions, and instead I go weeks -- months, even! -- without posting. 

It's just that I always thought a writer was supposed to be busy creating other worlds, other characters besides Himself. I would rather socialize with the characters from my Rose Of Skibbereen books than spend time creating a John McDonnell character who is Internet ready and appropriately controversial. 

Most writers are not that interesting in person, but in terms of building a following in this social networking age, that's the kiss of death. You have to be interesting at all costs, able to gain legions of followers because of your comments, pictures, and the "events" that you can stage. 

But, like I said, that has never been the way most writers operate. Some of the greatest writers in the world of literature have been the kind of people you'd never even notice at a party. P.G. Wodehouse, who wrote almost a hundred classic books (most of which are still in print 50 years after his death), said many times that he led a boring, uneventful life. He spent his days sitting at a desk, immersed in the radiant world he created, writing down all the adventures of his unforgettable characters, and he went months without doing anything that was worthy of a Tweet or a Facebook post. 

And what about Ernest Hemingway? Oh, he could probably fill up a lot of Facebook with pictures and posts about all his macho adventures -- marlin fishing, big game hunting, boxing, fly fishing -- but you wouldn't see a peep about anything to do with his writing. Hemingway, like a lot of writers, didn't want to spoil the creative mood by posting daily updates about what his characters said or did. He was notoriously close-mouthed about his works in progress, and I doubt he would have posted any of his writing on social media for his fans to read. 

These are just two examples, but the list is endless. Most writers in the past would not have adapted well to social media. I realize there are writers today who embrace it, and good for them. If they can keep up with all the demands of having a public persona and interacting with their fans on social media, while still managing to write beautiful, imaginative literature, well, God bless them. I'm not one of them, it seems, and there's nothing I can do about that. So, I'll just keep writing my stories every day, and once in a while I'll pop my head out of my burrow, blink a few times like a mole who's found his way to the surface, and post an update or two. 

And if Kim Kardashian is still in the news, I'll offer an opinion on her latest outfit. 

Dolores, Larry, And A Naked Kim Kardashian. A #fridayflash story.

By John McDonnell

Murphy awoke to the shock of cold water splashed on his face, and a very angry wife hovering over him.

“Cornelius Fergal Murphy,” she said, hands on hips. “I want to know what Kim Kardashian is doing, naked on my living room sofa.”

It took Murphy a few seconds to process this information, and he lay there blinking and moving his lips, but no sound came out. Finally, he remembered bringing the alien home last night.

“That’s just Larry,” he said. “No need to get upset, Dolores.”

“THAT is not a Larry,” Dolores said. “I don’t know what her name is, but it’s not Larry.”

“I can explain,” Murphy said.

“I can’t possibly imagine how,” Dolores said, “but I’ll listen.”

“Well, you see, he’s an alien. That’s not really his true form.”

“An alien. Now I’ve heard everything.”

“I swear, Dolores, it’s the truth. He came into the bar last night and had a little too much to drink--”

Dolores threw up her hands. “I should have known! Didn’t I tell you to stop bringing these lost souls here? I’m sick of taking care of these misfits from that hole-in-the-wall bar I told you not to buy.”

“This is different, Dolores. He’s feeling abandoned, and--”

“Let him see a psychiatrist then. I can’t afford to feed another mouth.”

“I don’t know if he has a mouth, actually. Although he likes pink fruity drinks.”

Dolores rolled her eyes. “I’m just glad my mother sleeps like a rock. If she had seen that naked woman on the couch--”

“Dolores, dear,” came a voice from downstairs. “We have a visitor. Come and see.”

Dolores cursed under her breath and ran out of the room, followed by Murphy, who ran downstairs in only his undershirt and boxer shorts.

Larry was sitting on the sofa, this time as a full grown silverback gorilla, watching a game show on TV with Dolores’ mother Edna, who was dressed in a turquoise off the shoulder gown, gloves, and a pillbox hat with a veil that would have looked chic in 1947.

“He’s got a perfect score in Jeopardy,” Edna said, grinning as Larry picked insects out of his chest hair.

“As long as they stay away from questions about particle physics I’m good,” Larry said.

“Dolores, this is Larry,” Murphy said.

Larry grunted, and Dolores stood there with her arms folded across her chest, sizing him up.

“You didn’t tell me we were having visitors, dear,” Edna said to Dolores. “I wasn’t properly dressed, so I went back and put on my dressy clothes.”

“I didn’t KNOW we were having visitors,” Dolores said.

“Larry, can I talk to you privately?” Murphy said. He pulled on Larry’s hairy arm and led him to the kitchen, where he closed the swinging door so Dolores wouldn’t hear.  

“Listen, Larry,” Murphy whispered. “Dolores doesn’t handle change very well, and if you’re going to stay with us you have to find a form that works for her.”

“Oh, sorry,” Larry said, and in a flash he was Kim Kardashian again. “Interesting body dynamics,” he said, moving unsteadily on his feet. “Balance has to be recalibrated, because of added weight in lower extremities.”

“No!” Murphy said. “Not that form! Dolores won’t like that one.”

“Oh, yes,” Larry said. “Territorial human females. Primitive response. What do you suggest?”

“Well, first I would suggest that you move your lips when you talk, instead of doing that thought transference thing,” Murphy said. “Second, what about something cute and cuddly, like a--”

Larry transformed into a six foot tall Emperor penguin. He waddled back and forth, smelling of salt water and fish, and said, “Penguins are cute, according to a recent survey of human affectional impulses.”

“Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph,” Murphy said. “No to the penguin! Something else.”

Larry turned himself into Jesus, complete with a long white robe and a halo. “Is this better? You mentioned Jesus.”

“Murphy, I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but I’m coming in,” Dolores said, from the hallway.

Murphy put his head in his hands. “Say your prayers, Murphy,” he muttered. “You’re going to die soon.”

He wasn’t sure what happened next, but when Dolores came through the door she was met by a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan, in a tuxedo, and smelling of a minty cologne, showing his teeth in a blindingly white smile.

“Ah,” Dolores said, stopping in her tracks.

“Mmm?” Pierce Brosnan said.

“Oh, Lord,” Murphy said.

THE END