FROM JAY SIGAL
I just finished reading "ON THE ROAD" the original scroll for the first time a week ago. I did so within four days, four separate sittings. The last three, simply out of my long practiced commitment to complete every book I start.
Like many readers, I came to this tome with a mental oil-slick of non-specific references of what a masterful interpretation of the "beat generation" it represented - - yet at seven years old, when ROAD was originally published, I knew nothing of Jack, Neal, Alan, Louanne, Denver, alcoholism, bebop, drug [ab]use, stealing cars, smoking pot, sex, or that ethereal "it" these things were thought to be assistants to the delivery of ... heck, at that time I was under the spell of equally renowned cultural icons like Queen for a Day's Jack Bailey, Disney's Mousekateers, The Adventures of Tom Swift, J Fred Muggs, David Suskind and Ed Murrow all burrowing into my young and precious mind planting surreptitious desires for the likes of Hills Brothers Instant Coffee, Geritol, Carters Little Liver Pills and Ivory Soap.
Let alone "dig" any of it.
But by 2008, while traveling through Santa Cruz, California on one of my own cross-country escapades, I happened to stop by the "Book Shop Santa Cruz" and saw a fresh copy of On the Road - The Original Scroll, Edited by Howard Cunnell, and decided to purchase a copy. That evening, securely parked and huddled warmly under the cool light of my reading lamp in my Winnebago's queen sized cocoon, I opened the book to page one. There began Howard Cunnell's analysis and "story of the story" and how it came to be and by page seventeen I was reading the same paragraph for the third or fourth time, finally giving up. Later that week I made it through Howard's effort to shoehorn himself into the books acquired fame, when I came upon Chapter II, penned this time by Penny Vlagopoulos. Three pages of her additional boring analysis in, and again, I gave up.
I just wanted to read "it" man.
I was after the benzedrine induced randomly punctuated non-paragraphed stream of immediacy of the moment recall in all the decadently bright visually-blurred vivid-detailedness of the "madness" of it however thanks to Penny's mind-numbing intellectualizing I completely lost interest in ever reading any further but by that time I was parked in a campground in Bakersfield and geographically unable to return the book for a refund when then it went to the shelf and since it has stayed and from there it hasn't strayed until of course five days ago when once again I picked it up to take another stab.
This time however, I had a plan. I skipped the remaining fifty four pages of scholarly boring analyses and went straight for "it ... the Scroll", eager to finally have both the time and renewed interest to take on the mystery, the myth, the legend, moving directly to being told by Jack ... "that he had met Neal shortly after his (Jack's) father died" ...
I had arrived ... I was at last peering into the long awaited hugely anticipated over inflated ultimately dilapidated soul of the revered life giving spark of the heart of the beat generation: Jack Kerouac. That evening I left Jack, as did the driver of his most recent ride, at Larimer Street in Denver, having much less of the "bigcity jumping buzz" than did Jack upon his arrival there.
I closed the book ... the end of the first day of the Scroll.
Day two began with renewed anticipation, allowing that perhaps I was just tired as reason for my mild disappointment in what I read the evening before. However, upon returning with Jack for the second time to Denver, my opinion hadn't changed … this time, wide awake. Nevertheless, anchored in the determination of tomorrow to continue, I put the book down for a second day.
I was clinging to Jack in much the same way Jack clung to Neal.
By the end of the third day, and while preparing to leave with both of them, this time for Mexico, continuing on took significant effort. I was road weary and in need of a shower, but by this time I needed a shower in my soul … decrepit, demoralized and deflated -- stretched beyond my ability to rationalize why I should complete this journey ... I was wretched ... feeling drained and morally stained by the lack of emotion, the shallowness of character, and the overriding and self-indulgent belief of discovering that I no longer had any beliefs in anything or anyone, particularly Neal.
I was mentally exhausted, lying there with Jack upon the roof of that car in the middle of the thick … mucky Mexican jungle night ... mosquito bitten ... sweat laden ... sliding towards hallucinogenic, and wondering, like Jack, if I might ever get a grasp of "it".
Not this trip Jack, perhaps not ever.
I wouldn't suggest never reading this book, but I will go so far as to say if you have to pay for it in order to read it, by it used. Perhaps you can get a copy at your nearest Goodwill, right over there ... on the shelf of other lost souls.
The first thing I noticed was an awful lot of stuff that had zero to do with the book. I would remove the stuff about your childhood, and definitely remove the part about reading the analyses - it makes you appear stupid. I think any reader would think, "If you wanted to read only the book and not the analyses, why didn't you?" There is probably no greater spur to good writing than a strong purpose to guide it. It slims and focuses your writing.
If you remove those two chunks, you’re left with a fairly decent personal opinion - not really a book review, but the emotions you felt during and after reading it. A real book review examines content and how it’s presented, and maybe compares it to other books of the same genre.
It was heavy with adverbs, adjectives, and prepositions in spots. Try to cut those down. Your verbs are weak, but not horribly so, and you have a bit of a list mannerism. At times, you word sentences awkwardly, but mostly not.
Overall, you strike me as a pretty decent writer, but one who has no voice yet, and as a result you overwrite. Novices always exaggerate when they first attempt things, until they gain the knack. That’s exactly how your writing strikes me – like you’re trying hard to sound a particular way. That’s good though. That’s how you develop a voice. If you continue writing and experimenting, you’ll read this piece in a year or so and think, “Wow…that’s pretty overblown.”
Here’s your piece without those two chunks and a lot of the other problems addressed. Feel free to ask any questions.
OK. I just finished "ON THE ROAD, The Original Scroll" for the first time a week ago. I managed to do so in three days, simply out of my long practiced commitment to complete every book I start. In 2008, while traveling through Santa Cruz, California on one of my own cross-country escapades, I stopped at a book store and saw a fresh copy of the book, and decided to buy it. It sat on my shelf for six years, unread, but I finally decided to read it.
Like many, I came to this tome with a mental oil-slick of what a masterful interpretation of the "beat generation" it represented. I craved the Benzedrine-induced randomly punctuated non-paragraphed stream of consciousness in all its decadently bright blurred vivid "madness". I skipped the boring scholarly analyses and went straight for it ... “the Scroll", excited to finally have both the time and interest to take on the mystery, the myth, the legend, and listened as Jack told me, "I met Neal shortly after my father died."
I had arrived. At last, I peered into the long awaited, hugely anticipated, over-inflated, ultimately dilapidated soul of the beat generation: Jack Kerouac. That evening I, along the driver of his most recent ride, left Jack at Larimer Street in Denver, feeling much less of the "big city jumping buzz" than Jack experienced upon his arrival. I closed the book - the end of the first day of the Scroll.
Day two began with renewed anticipation; I allowed tiredness as the reason for my mild disappointment in what I read the evening before. However, by the time I returned to Denver with Jack, my opinion remained unchanged, and I was wide awake. Nevertheless, anchored in the determination to finish this effort, I put the book down for a second day. I clung to Jack in much the same way Jack clung to Neal.
By the end of the third day, while preparing to leave with both of them for Mexico, it took significant effort to keep reading. I was truly road weary and needed a shower - a shower for my soul. I felt decrepit, demoralized, and deflated. Stretched beyond my ability to rationalize why I should complete this journey, I felt wretched, drained, and morally stained by the lack of emotion, shallowness of character, and the overriding and self-indulgent belief that I no longer believed in anything or anyone, particularly Neal. I was mentally exhausted, lying there with Jack upon the roof of that car in the middle of the Mexican jungle night ... mosquito bitten ... dripping with sweat ... sliding towards hallucination, and wondering, like Jack, if I might ever get a grasp of "it".
Not this trip Jack, perhaps not ever.
I won’t say never read this book, but I will say if you pay to read it, buy it used, perhaps at the nearest Goodwill - right over there ... on the shelf of other lost souls.