If Jack Kerouac Tried to Write On the Road Now

I first met Dean after my wife and I had split up—dude, why is everyone freaking out, it was just a small earthquake. We get it. Move on. Look at everyone with their little Twitter jokes about the earthquake.

Okay, okay, book, book, book. Focus on the book.

So, that’s when I had first met Dean. I had also just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother talking about—why do I keep getting alerts about crime? I thought I turned off alerts for everything.

Jesus, look at this footage from their doorbell cam. People are just going around taking mail out of mailboxes?

If you take mail, like, let’s just say you came and took my mail, what could you possibly do with it? Oh, fuck, credit card statement, right?

Okay, book. So, basically, the theme of the book is going to be My Road Trip. I’ll travel across the country. Just write it as it comes.

Why are all these writers online saying they love to write? They’re copping bits like, “I’m passionate about telling my story.”

Am I the only writer who feels like writing isn’t always fun? Oh, god, wait: Am I even passionate about telling my story? These squares all say they’re passionate about telling their story. Fuck. No matter what I try, there’s a part of me missing.

Gotta say, I like these pills, these things are making it easy to think fast. Wait, can I die from the pills? Googling the pills.

Jesus. Look at this. Every single one of these symptoms feels like something you could say about me.

You know what, maybe I’m too old. Maybe if I was going to get published, it would’ve happened by the time I was thirty. Now I’m over thirty, and like I always say, drunk while in filthy cafés full of big men blowing sax and peers paying for food with coins: Never trust anyone over thiry.

Fuck it, you know what, it’s not about what age you are, it’s about the writing. Just write. Write!

Shit, I have work calls at 11, 11:30, 12, 1:30, 3, and 5. At least there are a couple of blocks in there when I might be able to sneak a little more writing in.

It’s early. Still nine in the morning. Okay, here we go: I met Dean—wait I already said that. I mentioned the illness…

Maybe I should talk about Dean arriving in New York for his first time. Wait, has anyone already written a book like this? Let me look.

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! Goddammit, look at this: Here’s one about driving across America. Here’s one about hitchhiking the whole way. Here’s one about living on the road FOREVER, like, never going back to a house. Fuck, that one’s in development for a series.

This light in my lap is a bad news angel, makes me blow my jets. How am I supposed to write on this thing?

Hey, whatever happened to that jazz guy me and Dean used to listen to in clubs all the time? Okay, that’ll be my reward. If I work on the book a little longer, make rhythm with the lightbox in my lap, then I can have some internet time, screen jazz, and I’ll look him up.

Dean had arrived in New York for the first time. He and his beautiful girlfriend Marylou got off the Greyhound bus at 50th Street.

Eh, I gotta noodle this out. How do you buy a huge house like that by blowing brass in ghost alleys and jazz holes? Maybe it’s a generational wealth thing. I always forget about that. Google his family. Jesus, what am I doing? Work. On. Book.

Dean and Marylou cut around the corner, looking for a place to eat, and went right into…

Bingo. His grandfather literally started Home Depot or some shit. Or the parent company that became Home Depot.

Great, now there’s a wildfire alert. Where is it? Why doesn’t it show me on my smartwatch? I have to go to my phone to see the actual post about the alert. This whole notification scene isn’t swinging my way, man.

Dean and Marylou ate at Hector’s, and I went to the flat later to visit. Dean answered the door in shorts, and Marylou was jumping on the couch. Does it feel like I don’t really have a solid scene here? That guy on MasterClass said you need solid scenes.

It’s 10:18. I gotta go ape on a shower, baby. Get ready for this 11 call, look good on camera, be a haircut and smile out here in America.

At least I opened the document, though. I got a few lines down. Maybe I can do a little more after this call.