Dear Kerouac draft 2

Dear Mr. Jack Kerouac,
You have been named “The King of the Beats” and so before even opening my first Kerouac book I was excited. I had no idea what a beat was or how to be the king of one but I was excited. My expectations were never left unfulfilled. As I turned the first page open eagerly I was instantly intrigued by the frank but detailed language. That first page was a fine cocktail of dry humor, longing and pure bitter-sweet composure. Everything about “On the Road” engaged me.

The motif of freedom and restlessness spoke to me, a bored teenage boy. What could be greater than leaving all responsibility behind you and seeing the world with your best friends? In the midst of the glorious 1950’s where “The American Dream” conquered the minds of the masses your character, Sal, decided that he frankly didn’t give a damn. He rejected the ideals of society at the time which was to acquire a huge monstrosity of a house in the suburbs, settle down with your beautiful blond wife and father several happy white children. Sal joined the hobos, the socialists and the bohemians with pride. But enough about Sal, I admire YOU, Jack Kerouac.

My admiration for you comes from my love of all that is indie. You, the founding father of “The Beat Generation”, have inspired me as a writer and I would imagine that you were good friends with Bob Dylan himself. If you were a folk singer I would buy every album promptly in vinyl form. That’s just how dedicated I am to you. I could only imagine that you lived a lifestyle similar to Sal’s and yet you say “I am no beatnik. I am a Catholic”. I don’t know of many devout Catholic Benzedrine junkies. You wrote “On The Road” in twenty days while high on speed the whole time. Although it did inspire masterpieces of literature such a crazy lifestyle was ultimately your downfall. “It’s better to burn out then to fade away. The king is gone but he’s not forgotten” says Neil Young, but dying of cirrhosis at the age of forty-seven does not seem quite as glorious. Where else could you get such substance and detail in your stories if not real life? Do words simply flow from your mind to the paper without troubles or do you strain over every inch of ink? I struggle with these things daily with my own writing. Your masterpieces are almost discouraging to me. I’ll never be as great as you and I often wonder what the point is. Is that a silly thing to think? It must be. I’d imagine that you need someone to pass the baton to and I’m right here. I hope you don’t mind passing some wisdom to me as well as the baton because I sure can’t do it on my own. I’m assuming that is where the Benzedrine comes into play... that was a joke.

Sincerely,
William Toler Marsh