From the introduction: Given these words of Hemingway, we sit at our keyboard before a blank screen expecting to hemorrhage some profound truth. But nothing comes and we are vastly disappointed or frustrated at our inability to write a single word or phrase. We hear the clock ticking or our phone vibrate and we curse Hemingway for his deceit. We are done. But we are not done with the staccato rhythm of Hemingway, "The cold rain kept on and killed the spring." We read the harsh tone of Hawthorne's prose, "What other dungeon is so dark as one's own heart." We ponder the mood of terror painted...