Me and Hemingway
Hemingway sharpened twenty pencils before beginning his writing each day. I require Uniball Vision Elite pens which I buy in bulk at Cosco. They feel right in my hand when I commit my personal narratives about life to a hardback 8 x 12 inch journal. Beginning at age 30, I have written about my personal experiences, frustrations and inspirations, now a collection of almost 40 bound books in my own script.
Unlike Hemingway, I don’t write fiction. I have developed a lifetime habit of recording events and my reaction to them. I write to the headlines, to snatches of overheard conversations, bits of Sunday messages, lines of hymns. Beautiful fall weather, joyous family occasions, the loss of dear friends, reminiscences of times past. Middle of the night despair and anxiety sends me to my pen and paper to write out prayers. Then I sleep.
As I see it, writing for me has never been a vocation on any scale of measure. I simply am compelled to record my thoughts and reflect on my realities. It is the very way I interact with life.
My earliest memory of writing is in the third grade at Jester School. In my notebook, I wrote down things my teacher said that seemed interesting to me and also funny things one or another of the kids said during the school day. I had an abundance of time as there were eight grades in the room and I was the only one in my class. When I read my jottings to my mother, I think she found it horrifying as she was a former teacher and she gave me to understand that this was not the way to be a good student. So I went back to coloring pictures of Lassie in my free time.
Hemingway ran with the bulls in Spain. I spent a lot of time with cows as a child in Mid-Missouri. I admired their serenity and their meadow routine. . .mornings by the pond, afternoons lying in the shade. Often I joined the herd. They were so used to me that they didn’t move or stop chewing their cud. I made up songs about nature and animals and sang to them. As well these compositions did not survive as the lyrics were quite childish.
Once I found some index cards in a desk drawer and I was inspired to invent characters of an entire town that dwelled under trees and along hollows in the barn pasture. The plot strangely resembled the Western movies I saw on Saturday afternoons. Surely I deserved an A for effort in this endeavor, but when I told my teacher, my mother and school friends about my creation , they just looked at me with an odd expression and said, “Hmph!” That ended my flirtation with fiction.
As an adult, I have become fascinated with personal stories. As a psychiatric nurse therapist, I was privileged to fall deeply into the personal lives of hundreds of individuals. I learned from every person with whom I engaged. Professionally, I published in nursing journals two or three times, and I contributed to a textbook on dealing with children after disasters which was published by Johns Hopkin Press after 9/11. But my most satisfying project has been a collection of life stories of people born before 1940, self published in 2007. Writing a memoir for my family was another rewarding self-published venture. In the Missouri Historical Society Biographical papers room, I am proud to say that “Along the Hedge Row” by Carol Raynor is shelved right beside the memoir of Sally Rand, well-known stripper from Sedalia, Missouri.
To be called an “author” is an embarrassment to me, a false distinction. I write because I simply have to write. I am hopeful that someday a future descendant will search for and appreciate my complete works.
Hemingway experienced a turbulent life as a successful writer; strong drink wreaked havoc. My drink of choice as an adult has been double strength iced coffee. Here ends my parallel with the famous man. I have had a steady, contented existence as an unknown and undiscovered talent.
