To write is to give light.

Reflections from Ernest Hemingway's semi-fictionalized memoir, and musings on the under-valued purpose of writing fiction.

"If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light into what is written as fact."

— Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

I’m embarrassed to say that as a long-time reader and lover of quality storytelling that I’m very unfamiliar with Hemingway and his work.

I love what he stood for, his style, and his beliefs around the economy of words, but I’ve made little time to investigate his classic works over the years.

The number one reason is I’m much more of a writer than a reader, and what I choose to read needs to be worth sacrificing time to write in order to indulge in someone else’s story.

The story—be it book, film, etc.—must serve two purposes:

1. It must inspire me in ways that make me want to write even more

2. It must challenge me, bring out new ideas, and build onto one another

Most forms of art I consume serve one or the other.

Very few serve both. But, when it happens, it feels like magic.

(An example would be the novel The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, or the film Tár by Todd Field. Both works of art inspired me, made me anxious to write and indulge in a litany of new ideas, and both pushed me to think and imagine a little bit differently, and a little more wildly)

I’m sharing this with you because A Moveable Feast caught me off-guard.

I wanted to start reading Hemingway a few days ago. Felt it on a whim. I wanted to start reading more classics as I’m diving headfirst into exploring the minds and souls of talented writers who must have been even more restless and imaginative than me. I wish I could’ve met them. I want to ask Hemingway so many questions.

I didn’t know which of Hemingway’s works I should start with. I chose A Moveable Feast because of the title, and the summary I read on Amazon’s Kindle store.

I plunged into it thinking it was a full work of fiction, not a semi-fictionalized memoir.

This ended up being a remarkable decision, because in the first sentence I was entranced. The way Hemingway writes in this book feels like the unfiltered stream-of-consciousness of a true writer. A writer who loved and cherished the written word and storytelling more than most things, if not everything.

It’s familiar, comforting, and yet unfamiliar.

There are typos everywhere, grammatical issues littered about, and not one edited thought in sight. It feels like I’m being walked through Hemingway’s diary.

The raw and unedited feel is pure bliss.

What I keep coming back to isn’t the story itself, or the marvelous descriptions, or the interesting characters he invites into his circle throughout the novel.

It’s the message he leaves in the beginning of the novel.

(If you read the beginning of this article, scroll back to the top—I put the quote there for this exact reason)

It introduces the concept we all know as writers, but don’t really discuss. It’s a thought about how fiction and nonfiction can serve one another equally, and how fiction can present truth even if it’s not a work of factual storytelling, or people.

I’ve always known this instinctively as a lover of fiction. As a LinkedIn ghostwriter who helps build personal brands for others, I think about this even more. The nature of nonfiction storytelling can hold the same impact as fiction, and vice-versa.

It doesn’t matter how we’re telling the story.

It matters that we tell the story at all.

I write fiction because I love creating my own worlds, characters, and the foundations in-between. I love bringing what’s in my head to life through the written word. I love how words feel, look, and sound. There’s an aspect to writing I find beautiful and magnetic that other art forms can’t exactly bring about.

I write fiction to escape.

But, as Hemingway somewhat alludes to, writing fiction is a reflection of the self. We still need to “write what we know,” as every writing professor teaches in a solid college course. We need to understand what we’re writing in order to make it impactful. Telling stories through fiction still requires a grounding in realism.

This made me reflect on what I do know in my fiction.

I like to write curious characters. I like to write about emotions, and feelings. I like to explore neurodivergency without being obnoxiously direct about it. I like to write with subtlety, which is hard, since I overwrite my initial drafts every single time.

The more I reflect, the more I realize the types of storytelling I prioritize in fictional stories I’m obsessed with is exactly what I try to convey in my own work.

Hemingway’s memoir may be semi-fictional, but it reads with truth. There’s truth and dramatization littered in every page, in ways none of us will understand, because it’s impossible to ask him now what he meant, or what he wanted.

This mystery is what makes fiction so impactful to us as writers. It’s our responsbility to craft a story that speaks to our internal truths, and perhaps, throws light into unexplored truths the reader may want to uncover—whether they know it or not.

This is the artistic value of fiction that I want all of us to understand.

In the rapid noise of AI, and the fear around technology controlling humanity’s love of stories, I want to remind you—yes, the person taking their time to read these silly meandering thoughts—that real fiction can only be found in the power of human connection.

Real fiction requires truth.

A light we can’t fabricate.

This is not replicable.

It must come from within.