Others fell in love with lead singers of bands, or with actors. I, on the other hand, went in for dead authors.
For Jack Kerouac was the one who made my heart beat faster. To this unhappy, confused and hormonal teenager, Jack was nothing less than a saviour.
I read his words with a religious fervour. My dog-eared and stained copy of “On the Road” was my pride, my treasure. It’s going to sound cheesy and tacky, but can I say Jack was my knight in shining armour? Such a cliché, right? But I can think of nothing better.
Jack taught me that the necessity to write is all that really matters: fuck the rules, blow them out of the water… with a stick of dynamite and a barrel of gunpowder – write in any way you like, treat it first and foremost as an adventure.
Yeah, you could be a misfit, a loner, it didn’t necessarily make you a loser. Your emotions feed your soul – a light that should burn bright and strong and never ever flicker because, if nothing else, it’s all material for the writer.
Out of the pages of his books, all these things Jack would whisper…
I had it bad: I wanted him, I wanted to be him – what a heartbreaker!
That he was long dead didn’t matter: Jack Kerouac was my first crush, mentor and unlikely lover.
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