Dear Ernest Hemingway, 

I have some questions. I’ve read your book, For Whom the Bell Tolls, along with some of your short stories, and I find myself not understanding the purpose of certain aspects of your novels.

First of all, I was curious as to why on God’s green earth you provide us with every single event on your itinerary? Frankly, I could not care less which hills you climbed with your armies, and there is no reason for me to care about how you arrived at the bottom of the hill, then set up camp, then slept, then woke up, then put your camping materials back in your bag, and then climbed another hill. 

There is no need for the “then I did this, then I did that, then I did this” format. I try to be blunt, so I’m just going to explain: nobody cares. If I have to hear one more time which bridges you crossed, I’m going to shove a shotgun down MY throat. 

My second point: does every single story need to revolve around sex? In your mind, is sex the sun that each planet revolves around? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely complaining, but your work reads as the bizarre stories of a sex obsessed alcoholic. Wonder why.

There is no need to make your anti-war novel the 1930s equivalent of Fifty Shades of Grey. In fact, the only story that DOESN’T involve sex is the one called “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Great. Your stories are either soft-core, or about dead babies. Pleasant. 

I hope you consider making your stories about anything apart from sex. I am a sixteen year old pubescent boy and your stories are so sexually obsessed that I would rather read about dead babies, so for the love of GOD do me a favor and write about anything else instead. 

From,

Timur Markowitz