A Return to Arms

What's next? I'll tell you what's next. Hemingway, that's what's next.
I gave up Hemingway long ago. Those quick, punchy sentences and harsh, "reality-of-life" endings put me off his novels after only a few readings (I think it was A Farewell to Arms that delivered the death blow). His books made me deal with issues and emotions I didn't want to face and was certainly ill-equipped to deal with at the time. So I made a quick, cutting decision the kind only a youthful man can make and I cut him out of my literary pursuits with the tact and precision of a axe-murderer.
I managed to keep away from his work until late last year, when after constant pestering from a friend I read through a number of his short stories. They we wonderful of course and didn't carry the emotional weight of his novels so I decided maybe I'll pick up another of his books.
So last week I picked up "A Movable Feast" and for lack of a better term, I couldn't put it down. Each chapter was brilliant in it's economical use of words. Using them sparingly, he saved them up, like he saved the Francs of his poor Paris youth. So few were the words that each one was wrought with thought and emotion. I loved it but it depressed me. Every time I read writers reflecting on their youth and how they became writers, it always makes me wish I was a better writer. And how does that saying go, "You're no longer young when your dreams turn into regrets?". Something like that.
I don't necessarily regret anything, but reading Hemingway retell his poor, living-by-the-skin-of your-teeth-youth in Paris, it makes me wish I had a romantic time where I can look back and say this is how I became me. I lived through this hardship and became the man I am now.
So far my life, as good and as fortunate as it's been, just sort of flows along nicely. Sure there have been bumps and missteps, but I always seem to come out on top. Well, I guess that's nothing to complain about.
But as I sat there last weekend at my first Master Brewers of America Association meeting, reading my novel in the hotel bar as all the other members, shook hands, slap backs and say things like, "Well here comes trouble", every time an old friend walked into the bar, I'm was torn between regret and optimism.
I regret that I haven't really changed. Certainly my life and the course it's take over the last few years has changed (and mostly for the better), but my personality hasn't. I'm still overly shy in situations where I have to meet new people. I'm not one to approach a new group of people, introduce myself and then be the life of the party. I need to be introduced, I need the other person to make the first steps before I integrate myself into their group. I still don't have the confidence to make "first contact".
But the optimism on the other hand stemmed from the fact that I could still make that change in my personality. I had a new opportunity here to make and impression on this group of people. I could walk up to them and introduce myself. I could make the first move.
Of course I don't I sat at my table, drank my beer and read my novel. Electing again to wait and be introduced at dinner before I become comfortable enough to talk to them. Then eventually when I've got to know them enough and feel more comfortable I'll change into myself and inevitably months down the road they'll say something along the lines of, "Wow, when I first met you, you were so quiet and shy. I didn't think I'd really get along with you. It's like you're a totally different person now."
That's pretty much how it goes.
But I guess it's worked so far.
It's funny though, I can't introduce my self to people on a one on one basis, but I have no trouble talking and presenting in front of large groups. I taught my first "Beer School" lesson yesterday at the brewery and it went swimmingly (up until the end when the heat exchange pooped out on my and I had to toss my batch of beer).
I don't really get nervous in front of a large group of people, maybe I'm a glory hound and crave attention, I don't know. But public speaking has never been a problem for me. It's the speaking in public thing I have to work on.
So maybe these are my hardships? Maybe they aren't as romantic as Paris and the mountains or Europe. Maybe they aren't riddled with the names of literary heavy weights from the past century. But they are still my hardships. And when I'm sixty and these hardships have had time to age and gather dust in the hallways of my memory. And I decide to brush them off and look back on my youth and retell my story, maybe I'll see how they crafted and shaped me into the man I've become. But I guess I'll just have to wait for that.
So what's next?