The Not-So-Old Man and the Sea

The book is a fictional action/magical realism/psychological biography of Ernest Hemingway-his loves, his life, his misery, and his suicide. One September day, the not-so-old man sets out on a long swim in the Gulf of Mexico to forget two family tragedies that ruined his life. As memories of his past haunt him, he finds himself escaping by thinking of his favorite writer, Ernest Hemingway. From his early childhood when his mother dressed him as a girl, to his wartime exploits, four marriages, expat life in Paris, safaris, and bullfights, to the genetic illness that could have caused him to commit suicide, all 61 years of Hemingway's life are woven into a fast-paced, psychological drama that is not only thrilling in its own right but punctuates the tenor and importance of Hemingway's writing. As the not-so-old man swims to what he thinks is his destiny, he slowly connects all the dots of Hemingway's life to reveal hidden truths about his stories, his philosophies, the one true love he let slip away and, most shockingly, his suicide. Suddenly overwhelmed by surreal forces he can't control, the not-so-old man finds himself in a life-or-death struggle only Hemingway can solve. The not-so-old man's strength is fading, his will is weakening, and his mind… might just become Hemingway's mind too.
“Beautifully written and very heartwarming”
“Hemingway fans will rejoice, and many more will be made upon reading this book”
Excerpt
The not-so-old man's eyes flickered.
Now he felt for the first time that transformation and his face flushed, and his palms moistened with sweat. An angel was standing before him; a gift from the Gods, he thought-no, knew-introduced to him by his friend as his friend's sister's friend whose skin was fair and hair not closely but loosely cropped and reddish and naturally alive and just messy enough to give her some spunk. He shook her hand-so soft, tender, warm, loving, childish, forgiving, encouraging, nurturing, wanting, needing, sacrificing, excitedly alive with anticipation, and hope. It was the hope in her eyes-those somber, shy, and cloistered eyes-that were waiting, pining for the chance he was going to give her-the chance to break free of the Victorian, the manners, the cautions, the deaths of the life she was living. At that moment, when their hands touched and their eyes lingered in each other's-the freedom. Yes, the freedom! The freedom that would, above all, make inconvenience tolerable.
“Ernest, I'd like you to meet my sister's friend… Elizabeth Hadley Richardson, this is my roommate, Ernest Miller Hemingway.”
“Nice to meet you Elizabeth.”
“Hadley.”
“What's that?”
“Hadley. Everyone calls me Hadley.”
“Of course. Of course. Hadley…”
Her hand. Her eyes.
“Kate tells me you're from St. Louis.”
“That's right.”
“But she never told me how lovely you are.”
Hadley's eyes rolled, but their corners wrinkled.
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't say that. But I shouldn't say a lot of things.”
She laughed a shy, quiet laugh as she held her fingers over her lips and flashed a smile that couldn't hide behind her suddenly full and rosy-pink cheeks. Her eyes finally broke away and glanced at the floor.
He couldn't let go of her hand. She gently, reluctantly, took it back.
“But, Hadley… you are… no… you are more than that… you are…” he paused, deliberately, he paused. He wanted to entice her, to coax her, to tease her, to have her ask him for more.
“Okay. I'll bite. What am I?”
“You are springtime.”
She blushed and looked as if she needed to steady herself.
Ernest knew what to say next: “Can I get you another drink? Another glass of Chablis?”
“Okay.”
“I'll be right back. Better yet, here,” he took her hand..