The Hemingway Effect: Channeling Ernesto and Reflecting on His Lessons

Today is Ernest Hemingway’s birthday. If you know me well enough, you know that Ernesto/Papa is my favourite writer. I also feel inexplicably drawn to him and his existence despite him being the very opposite of everything I personally stand for. There is an energy about him that lures me in and keeps me trapped. He inspires me beyond measure, and I can only aspire to be as simple and authentic a writer as he was. I know him and am sure there is more to this connection than some mere earthbound obsession.

I was told that he is one of my writing guides, and I do not feel he has reincarnated on earth yet (more reflection is usually required when one chooses suicide as an earthly exit). I do not know what other capacity he plays in my spiritual life, and I’m not even sure we ever shared a timeline (I don’t think I was around in the 1920s – but perhaps his spirit and my own shared a more distant life together… I’d love to uncover that someday). I am sure he was one of the signs that was meant to trigger my ultimate desire to move to Paris and follow my life path. And perhaps he is also a key figure in understanding forgiveness, as I do not like much of his earthly behaviour but am still absolutely capable of exalting him as a phenomenal writer.

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Many moons ago (sometime in 2020), I sat in silence and tried to evoke his spirit. This was when I knew I was meant to write a book but had not yet thought of The Transformational Path or had even begun scribing its pages. This is what was written:

“Perhaps you can help me write something meaningful?” I asked him, with not an ounce of meekness. My eyes showed desperation, and he could sense it in my tense shoulders.

“But then it would be yours and not mine, and you are not me, but are fully you. Write like you, and only you. I can inspire, but I am not made of carbon.” And I hung my head with disappointment as nothing fluttered within, nothing waiting to break free and spread its wings onto paper.

“How did you do it? How did you get through these plateaus?” I inquired, hoping for some respite from the drowning. A flotation device to keep my head above water. Anything, anything to keep me going. 

“I wrote shit. When I couldn’t write content that was worth being in the pages of my books, I just wrote shit. I wrote even when there was only shit to write. And I tossed out the shit when I was done being satiated by merely writing. Even when there was nothing, I still wrote. That’s what editing is for. No one enjoys it, but it’s there to clear the shit. So just write, even if it’s complete shit.” 

He kissed me on the forehead and held my writer’s hand in his, looked me in the eyes, and said, “You’ve got this kid. It’s existed inside your being from the moment you could put pen to paper. I’ve been there from the start, and I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got this. This is your journey, and I’m going to help you walk it. No one lied to you and said it would be easy, so why are you playing the victim? Head up, pen to paper, and just bleed. It may kill you, but it will be worth it. Trust me.”

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Last month, I was scrolling through my Google Docs when I found that text. I decided to return to his energy and see what would come forward. I wrote this:

I returned to him a few years later with more questions buried deep in my spirit that longed for answers.

“I wrote. I wrote as you told me. I wrote shit. I wrote books worth binding. I wrote it all. But I didn’t see abundance in return. I only saw mere pennies in my pocket. I did what writers do, and I wrote and published. I let myself bleed for all to witness and swim in, and yet the plateaus remain. Now, not the plateaus of writer’s block but the plateaus of writing failure. I am living the life of a writer and seeing nothing in return. How did you do it? How did you keep it going through the disappointment? How, in a sea of a billion books, do you ensure your book gets snared by the net of millions of readers? How? Is this even worth the struggle?”

I looked to my left, where his photo sat plastered on my wall, and his eyes spoke to me with a deep sense of understanding and empathy—not something I expected from the man himself. He was the man who always called me to stop showing the world my weakness.

And he whispered, “Where has greatness and notoriety gotten me? It drove me to madness. There was so much to live up to that when I knew I couldn’t do it any longer, I abandoned life. Like a coward. Don’t listen to me when I speak of it not being cowardice to the writers of yore. I was a liar, too. It was a cowardly ending for a writer. It’s not an ending we write with pride for our characters, yet this is how I wrote my story. And why was that? Because my books were read and the world saw through me, my transparency made me weak. I hated my weakness. And people saw it because I wished for it, like you wish for it, now.

It’s better if you write, and it stays unread until you’re dead and gone. It’s better to write and bleed and spill your guts in journals and for people to find them when you’re gone. There is more truth to your work when you live like that. When you live with the intention of, “I am writing to release. Not for you. Not for Tom, Dick, or Sally. For me.” When you write that way, you write with more truth. And your books will live on with more pride and importance than mine. Because, at the end of the day, there is shame tainting how I view my work. And it ain’t worth it, kid. Don’t write to be noticed. Write to live on. Write to live, now.” 

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Today, on his one hundred and twenty-fifth birthday, I am really reflecting on that last channeled session with his energy. I am really devouring the truth in his words. I love my quiet life. I love living in the shadows. Of course, I write with intention and with purpose and that is to help others heal and live their most abundant life. But I also trust the Universe that people will find me, my writings, my blogs, my journals, my books, when they need it most.

Maybe that’s not when I’m around to witness it all. I am doing enough and achieving enough to feel the abundance without feeling the drowning within the waves of expectation. And maybe that’s exactly what I require in this lifetime. I know that this existence is not meant to be lived according to the expectation and requirements of others, and perhaps if my books had the fame, attention, or focus of so many greater writers than myself, the weight of living to perform would be far too much to bear. The inability to express myself authentically due to the fear of being watched or being under a microscope would be too emotionally, mentally, and spiritually stressful.

Perhaps my love of Hemingway is intended to teach me that lesson: it’s better to write the Truth, to write authentically, and to be invisible to the reader’s eyes than to feel the weight of the world watching you and be driven to madness.

In the end, I do know people are finding me. Someway. Somehow. And I know that my works and spiritual clairaudient services are changing the lives of those they touch. I have also often thought that I don’t care how people access and consume my words as long as they allow their impact to ripple into the Collective and harmonize the planet.

I love Hemingway. I have many authors that I love for the worlds they create, but none like I love – from a soul level – Ernest. I love him like I know him; really, truly know him. Perhaps in the aether I do, and perhaps he will be one of the first to greet me knowing I’ll need a little writer’s validation from the Great Papa. Most importantly, I love the lessons that he helps me uncover as I sit in silence with his energy and reflect on my craft and my role as healer on this planet.

I also feel exceptionally protective over him; maybe I am more his guide than he is mine, and despite his earthly greatness as an author, I have failed him as a teacher in the aether. There are aspects of his behaviour that remind me of my husband- the lost pup who just wants his success to validate his worth (I sometimes suspect they’re from the same soul group). Because all of Ernesto’s “bad” or “terrible” behaviour comes down to sadness in his spirit and a longing to be loved. He may have exuded an energy of Ego and cockiness, but that’s just him masking his fear, insecurity, and sensitivity.

Angela O’Donnell writes, “We are forced to face the troubling fact that the gods of art often use the least worthy among us to be their vessels,” but she missed the mark just a bit. That is the point. Our spirits choose the perfect challenging vessel to express their wonder because there is a lesson to be learned. It’s not a coincidence that so many “terrible” people are masters at art and disasters at life. To chalk it down to coincidence is to ignore the pattern of how Source works, and how taking up a human life is meant to work.

Hemingway’s soul was meant to learn how to balance his authentic writing and his insane skill and to disconnect it effectively from needing validation and the mask of Ego. That is why I think he comes to me to remind me, but that’s not the point. That’s not why we took up this assignment on earth as writers. He forgot his path and didn’t learn his lesson on harmonizing the fear that comes with producing Truth. Instead he began masking and overcompensating for having fallen short of that learning. Typical soul behaviour when they feel they’re too far down the rabbit hole for redemption.

I don’t think he was a terrible person at all, and I don’t think using our modern lens of judgment gives him any credit for navigating his challenging internal life in the best way he could. He may have hurt his lovers, but he was also hurting himself over and over again, and a terrible human being does not end his life in the manner he did. Further proof that this was all an ongoing struggle for him and to not understand that and to label him as awful helped pushed him to that end. I’d like to believe that I get it while simultaneously not condoning it, and simultaneously wishing he would have done better for himself. I hope the words I channeled from his energy are words he takes to heart in his next incarnation, where he will most certainly return as a great writer of his time.

Anyway, thanks Ernesto. And happy earthly birthday, ya filthy animal.

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xx C