Fact Check Me: Suburban Hemingway

Tries to be a Real Writer

With all the hoopla about Substack's new AI checking feature, I thought I'd give it a go and try to be a real writer.

So I jumped in the Kia, went out and got myself one of those fancy crystal-cut whiskey glasses and a pack of cigarettes.

Got back home and lugged out the antique typewriter my wife bought to decorate the office. Placed it on the desk by the window, poured myself some apple juice in the whiskey glass, neat.

Started sipping and cursing as the pack of smokes sat on the table, an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. Hunched over the typewriter, I hit the keys as they clunked with all the fury my two index fingers could muster, mumbling to myself the whole time.

Writer's block hit me almost immediately.

That led to a full-blown existential crisis, which led to me pouring and downing three glasses of apple juice while puffing madly on my unlit cigarette.

I thought what I really needed was some air.

But since I live in suburbia, there were no bullfights, boxing matches, race tracks, or smoke-filled jazz bars. So I walked to the park where kids were playing little league while moms with tattoos exchanged Pinterest photos from the bleachers.

I got up and left before anyone had the chance to ask me which kid was mine.

That would've made the whole thing awkward, having to explain that I was just some random guy watching nine-year-olds play T-ball looking for literary inspiration.

Got back home, had a perfectly mediocre argument with the missus. Something about leaving the clothes in the dryer.

Sat back down at the typewriter to write what you're reading...

...until I realized it's 2026.

What the hell am I going to do with a stack of typed pages? Not to mention the ribbon on the typewriter dried out sometime during the Harper government.

So I laid down in bed, picked up the shitty phone I don't like, and AI'd this thing into existence.

Now I'm handing it to you.

If you decided to read this, thanks.

If you think I wasted your time... you probably knew what you were getting into.

So maybe I'm not that sorry.

Maybe we've spent so much time worrying about how people write that we've forgotten to ask whether they had anything worth saying in the first place.

Fact check me.