Stalking writers after enjoying a good read

When visiting where great authors wrote, I’m always hoping a bit of that genius rubs off.

The Philadelphia area is a hot bed for publishing and writers.

Where would we be if our founding fathers hadn’t taken pen to paper, thus producing magic?

Thomas Jefferson took a rented room to write the Declaration of Independence at what was then “the burbs,” at 7th and Market streets.

Most Philadelphia residents in 1776 chose to reside where a majority of the action occurred, close by the Delaware River. The Pennsylvania State House, or Independence Hall, at 6th Street was the unofficial edge of the city.

Nothing is perfect; life is full of trade-offs. Jefferson got his solitude but complained about the smell and flies produced by the horse stable across the street.

Pearl S. Buck lived and worked in Perkasie. The wooden chair she wrote upon looks very uncomfortable. She said it kept her mentally sharp.

I so enjoy viewing the home libraries of authors. Not every great writer reads only the classics. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, in a bookshelf, next to Buck’s bed, is a paperback copy by pulp writer Mickey Spillane.

The Ravens might play football in Baltimore but we’ve got the actual mascot here. Six-year Philadelphia resident Edgar Allan Poe wasn’t fond of his contemporary, Charles Dickens, who originally owned the stuffed raven residing here, but Poe somehow ended up with it.

That bird, an inspiration for the classic Poe story, is on display at the Main Branch of the Free Library, located off the Ben Franklin Parkway (Ben also wrote and published just a wee bit in Philly).

One of Poe’s former homes is in Philadelphia, and if you listen closely you can almost hear a heart beating from beneath the wood flooring.

The Michener Art Museum in Doylestown is a world class art museum, often taking chances with eclectic visual art, but for me the highlight is a recreation of Bucks County native James Michener’s office.

Hand-edited drafts by Michener sit next to his typewriter. Before we typed into keyboards, tablets and cellphones, and when almost everybody smoked, businesses gave away matches and pens. It’s quite fitting that the author of Centennial and Chesapeake collected a drawer full of free pens.

I’d like to think that Pearl S. Buck spent most of her time in China and Zane Grey lived his whole life in the shade of the Rockies. Surprisingly, Grey’s home is in the Pocono’s, alongside the Lackawaxen River, and is open to the public.

Ernest Hemingway lived much of his life right where you’d expect, near the fertile fishing grounds of both the ocean and gulf, in Key West, Fla. You can peek past the descendants of dozens of his six-toed cats and into Hemingway’s office. Papa wrote while standing.

When hitting the bars on Duval Street near the Southernmost point in the Continental U.S., it’s not hard to imagine where Hemingway got much of his inspiration.

Kurt Vonnegut sat down to write and you can see his typewriter at a funky museum in Indianapolis. It’s the only museum I’ve ever visited that pumps in the Grateful Dead as visitors view a semi-recreation of the Slaughterhouse-Five author’s library. Much of Vonnegut’s visual art, and even his Purple Heart medal, is displayed.

The one author’s informal workspace I missed visiting was that of someone I truly wanted to meet. Hunter S. Thompson received his mail at the Woody Creek Tavern in Aspen, Colo. On my one visit to Aspen, I chickened out and did not seek out Thompson.

Maybe it was for the best I didn’t stalk H.S.T., fearing he couldn’t live up to my expectations in the flesh, and would appear a mumbling, ordinary guy, with a Wild Turkey at his elbow.

Still, I have Thompson’s work. That will never go away. Jefferson, Buck and Hemingway are all gone, but we’ve got something tangible to remember them by.

All those typewriters and original handwritten drafts displayed are living reminders and give much insight, but the most important stuff will always be there on the printed page.

Just for kicks, I considered buying a stuffed puppet with a likeness of Vonnegut at the museum gift shop in Indy. Instead, I bought a copy of a Vonnegut book I’d previously read. I made the right choice.

I’m inspired. Like we view all artists, much of the allure of authors is the way they live and their surroundings. Though in the end, obviously, it’s a writer’s work that lasts forever.

Without a doubt, the very best way to know a writer is by visiting the library.

Ernest Hemingway