I watch a ton of documentaries, and I just finished watching one about Kerouac. I’ve watched several about the Beats in general and specifically. I’ve read On The Road and Dharma Bums, and I’ve enjoyed them. Watching this film, though, man am I jealous.
He wrote On The Road in twenty-one days. I can’t even fathom that. I have a novel or two half-written, laying around. Every once in awhile I add five or ten pages to them, and then they sit around for another four or five months, forlornly. There’s so little in this world that I can accomplish in twenty-one days. It makes me tired just thinking about it. It also makes me want to push a few buttons on Netflix and start another movie. That’s so much easier than writing. Not to mention my least favorite friend, rewriting. Ugh. Revision.
Though there have been times when words have flown out of my mind and through my fingers via pen or keyboard, but never have I been able to type out a scroll of a novel in a matter of days. Forget how good it is. Forget that he changed and influenced the world. Just that fete alone.
Of course, the amount that I could get done if I just started using a bunch of speed and drinking 24/7 might impact what I could accomplish, however, I think it would probably be in the opposite direction. I can only imagine, thankfully, how distractible I could be on speed.
He died at 47, though. I’m closer every day to 47 than I ever will be to 27 ever again, and I haven’t even had a single story or poem published, yet. Think of what he left unwritten.
So right now I’m feeling a little bit inspired, but I’m not sure it’s to write. I may just want to read On The Road again.