What does the following quote by Ernest Hemingway mean: "There is nothing to write, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed"?

What does the following quote by Ernest Hemingway mean: "There is nothing to write, all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed"?

Kyle Phoenix, Writer and student & Instructor at Columbia University

Updated Sat

I concur that quote isn't his but the symbolism is. To me it means, and I've done this, one doesn't truly become a serious writer until you put in the real work. I call it slitting open a vein. When I write about childhood abuse, being raped; my father's insanity and drug addiction; my mother's narcissism; my extended family greed and abuse; the lovers who swore to never abandon me and then did; the betrayal of friends the stabs of racism; homophobia and misandry; my own doubts---all of that blood and viscera's from me, myself, just meticulously carved out and added to the story/novel soup.

Sometimes it is for the female character who needs to voice rape that I give her my (rape) blood, or the storyline that needs the downward spiral of addiction...I stir in my father's (bloody) decline and violent madness or when I need to convey being the outsider in a family because you're talented or normal and the others want to insult, beat, rape it out of you in envy, I pluck bloody barbs and glass shards (from memories) and drop them into the stew.

And that tang?

That crunch that might be salt or not?

That part that at a reading in a Buffalo made a woman come up to me crying about a little boy beaten to death, stuffed in a freezer then dumped in a lot? I could expand upon because there were times that I was beaten so severely I wished for death, so I spirit -know the little boy, Michael, written about, true tale from the NY DAs office by Alice Vaachs—-Michael, who was killed by his mothers boyfriend for balling up his first, at 4, in anger at his constant abuse, I know small, baby animal fury at what's being wrought on you so that I can use my blood and his truth to twenty years later, get we, me, others to cry for him. ‘Cause tears are excellent spice.

All that gumbo, when I read others is what I look for, sniff for, taste for.
You can instantly know who's cutting veins and who's just vomiting words in sequence.