Like he is for many writers, Jack Kerouac is a huge inspiration to me.
In fact, my debut Bookworm explains exactly how very much he is responsible for me being able to call myself a writer.
So back when Borders went bye-bye in the summer, I picked up a handful of Charles Bukowski books, as well as two new Kerouac books that I’m finally getting around to reading.
It took me a lot longer than I care to admit to finally finish Bukowski’s “Portions from a Wine-Stained Notebook.”
Up first from the Kerouac camp is “Big Sur,” which was chosen first for no other reason than it was on top of the pile. I’m only on chapter seven and a mere 24 pages in, but I’ve fallen even more for Jean-Louis.
The way his words flow at a rapid pace, the way he can paint a picture with those words, the way I can feel how damp his rickety old sleeping bag is from the thick fog, I am inspired by his descriptions of the ocean waves breaking against the rock as if I am seeing them through his eyes because they are somehow my own.
I can’t wait to see what else we’ll see in Big Sur, Jack, because sometimes I, too, wish I could get away from it all and seclude myself far, far away from everything, everyone and everywhere with nothing but my pen, my paper and an ocean view.
And, OK, let’s be honest: Maybe not Internet, but at least a laptop with Word.
Where would your “Big Sur” be?
While I love California, my heart belongs to a land I most likely will never travel to: Tahiti.