Wish I had it in me to live in the Hemingway style. I tried for enough years and managed to do everything but the writing .
I must confess I am not one for mixing with other writers much (Litopia is the beginning, middle and end of my involvement with the wider creative world), mainly because my single foray into a creative writing class was not a positive one and I found myself deliberately trying to wind up both the person teaching it and my fellow students because of what I perceived as their all round pretentiousness and general addiction to their own particular brands of bullshit. But I have enough self-awareness now to realise that this predilection for trying to get under the skin of my fellow writers is more a reflection of my many, and varied, chips that I carry on both shoulders.
Oddly enough I am more than content with my own company, and my own little slice of heaven is an empty house, a pot of tea and a blank screen for me to fill up with my own brand of creativity/bullshit. But only for an hour or two. Then I need others around me otherwise the desire to start bingeing like good old Ernie offers me a return to the bad old days. Other people are good for my mental and physical well being.