Because We All Need a Quiet Spot to Write

Many years ago, my cousin got married in Key West. I know what you’re thinking—it’s a bit bold to make your entire family fly to the southernmost tip of the United States for a wedding, but I was excited to go. Not just for the beautiful weather or a few days on the beach, but because when I thought of the Florida Keys, I thought of Ernest Hemingway.

Hemingway lived in Key West in the 1930s, and his former residence is now a museum. Visiting this house was the thing I looked forward to most on the trip. I tried to convince several family members to join me, but in the end, only my brother, Matt, was willing to venture off with me.

The house wasn’t as large as you might imagine, though the property itself was sprawling, filled with polydactyl cats said to be descendants of Hemingway’s own. As we wandered through the bedroom, dining room, and kitchen, I kept repeating the same request to my brother.

“I just want to find the writing room.”

He shrugged. “Maybe there is no ‘writing room.’”

But I was convinced. Somewhere on this property, there had to be a room where Hemingway dedicated himself to his craft. He wouldn’t have written in the kitchen or the bedroom or the dining room. There had to be a space with books and a desk—a place where he could lock himself away and write his stories.

“Maybe there’s no writing room,” Matt said again.

We searched the entirety of the main house, but the elusive room was nowhere to be found. I started to doubt myself, wondering if I’d been mistaken. Still, we continued to explore the property, eventually finding ourselves far in the back, where cats circled around an inground pool. Nearby was a pool shed, home to old kayaks, life jackets, and scuba gear. Knowing Hemingway, I wouldn’t have been surprised if there was a harpoon or two in there as well.

That’s when I saw it. Behind the shed, there was a staircase leading up to what looked like an attic above the small building. I climbed the staircase, ducked my head inside, and there it was. A desk. A typewriter. A bookshelf. At that moment, it all made sense. Of course, the writing room wasn’t in the main house; it was tucked away in this quiet attic above the pool shed, a perfect place to put the right words in the right order.

I’ve since put together my own writing room at my apartment, though it’s really just a small room with a spare bed where we let visitors sleep in when they’ve had to much to drink. God bless my girlfriend for letting me wheel in a desk, a chair, and a small bookshelf. On the walls, I’ve taped up posters and notes for each character in my novel—their goals, dreams, wants, and needs. It’s in that room that the majority of Whalers was written.

It’s certainly not the top of a shed overlooking a pool in Key West, but it’s mine.

Whalers debuts in early 2025. Stay on this website for updates.