“Papa” Hemingway has for decades been held up as the gold standard for fiction-writing, with millions worshipping at the altar of his staccato stories’ hypermasculinity. I’m writing this standing up, like both Ernest Hemingway and Virginia Woolf famously did, lest anyone think of writers as a somnolent species, lazily nibbling the backs of their quills while sprawled in a bed filled with cookie crumbs.
