I recently took a trip to the American Writers Museum, a creative wonderland tucked inconspicuously in the heart of Chicago.
As a niche museum in a vast city with much to do, the crowd was sparse. But it was one of the most inspiring days of my life, admiring all the written word warriors that came before me.
I get introspective when I am creatively inspired, so I didn’t talk much as I shuffled from exhibit to exhibit.
One of the most interesting parts of the museum was the original scroll of Jack Keorouc’s On the Road.
“Wow,” I whispered to myself. I noticed all the handwritten edits across the page. He does that too!, I thought in childish wonder.
Shameful Confession: Against everything it means to be a writer, I had never read On the Road.
The following day, I went to the library and checked it out. It was time to fix a long-standing wrong.
I read about Sal and Dean driving all over the country – and even heading down south to raise a little hell in Mexico too – and read all the background info on who was (really) who in the faux fiction.
Shameful Confession Vol. 2: I didn’t really like On the Road.
I know, I know. Believe me, I know.
What made it impactful is the time in which he wrote it. The Beatniks and Counterculture. This was stuff you didn’t write about back then. You have to understand the zeitgeist, Jesse, you unappreciative swine!
I get it.
That’s why I say that I respect On the Road but I don’t like it. And it pains me to say that because as a writer, there are works you’re supposed to like. Of course, On the Road is high on the list of books you’re supposed to like. It’s about freedom, adventure and self-destructive behavior. How can you call yourself a writer if those things don’t resonate?
(Let’s get something perfectly clear before we move on: I most certainly am self-destructive.)
A frustrating part about art is also what makes it great: it’s subjectivity. You can like what you like and not like what you don’t.
That’s what separates it from the sciences – where you can hang around in a white lab coat and know this either is or isn’t. Sometimes I am jealous of those binary boundaries. I wonder what that would look like if it existed in the right-brain world of art.
Yes, On the Road is only good within its own time.
No, Jackson Pollock dribbling paint on the canvas isn’t genius.
Yes, “Big Bang Theory” does, in fact, suck.
But how is that interesting?
Art is about being moved to tears because of its beauty. Art is about sitting in silence because you can’t find the words to describe what you’re feeling. Art is about dismissing more successful artists, pretentiously calling their work derivative.
Life needs the freedom of thought to stand up and say, “You know what? I didn’t really care for On the Road.” Or maybe all those faces on the museum wall look down on me with disgust.
“You call yourself a writer?” they say. “You have to understand: you need to appreciate the time in which it was written.”
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