...I wanted to share.

Yeah, backing up my writing. Going through it as well. I quite like this little gem.In it's own way, of course. It was pretty much me just writing whatever popped into my head.


Jack Kerouac and I sat on the rim of the teacup. He looked over at me some sort of secret joke in his one good eye, and opened his mouth.
“Why do you always start these things with non-movement, darling? They stood. She sat. I lounged. Bla bla bla set the scene. Also, why are you suddenly imagining me with an eyepatch?” He said, half thoughtfully and half sarcastically, gripping the smooth edge with his wrinkled, solid hands. I scratched my nose.
“Oh, I don’t know, trying to think quickly, I suppose. Practice for my novel.” I scratched again. Itchy itchy. He patted me on the shoulder.
“Well, let me tell ya something, sweetheart. If you’re so hung up on this inspiration stuff for your novel, you shouldn’t sit here and think about it, you should go do something and write about it. That’s good literature. Not some whiny little pansy complaining about their lack of experience.” He swirled his shoeshined feet in the murky liquid as he said this, and I smiled a little.
“Oh, like you’re Mr. Experience. Yeah, sure, you did some crazy shit and wrote about it, but how much of what Sal Paradise and his Frisco New York beat did was true?” I looked at him accusingly, and he shrugged and smiled. “Besides, how am I going to do that kind of stuff? I can’t even drive yet. Ah, how horrible to be smart and bored and disillusioned before you can do anything about it.”
“Well now look at that, pansy whiner, prime example, right there.” He raised his voice, turning away slightly. It was obvious he didn’t like pansy whiners.
“But no!” I rushed to defend myself. “The pansies whine about their lack of experience because they are scared to experience things. I whine about my lack of experience because I can’t experience anything. Hey,” I stopped suddenly in my meandering rant explanation, another thought popping into my head. “Remember that movie? You know, the one where the dad in the family pretty much hates American society but he loves to invent stuff, so he takes the family deep into the jungle and eventually makes an organized community there, effectively creating what he was running away from, and then he goes kinda nuts and is always trying to settle in new places, settling into new ways of life?” Jack nodded. Neither of us could remember the title, of course. Good movie, though. But anyway. “We should totally do that! We could buy a little boat, fit it out for a trip or whatever, like, a sailboat? Yeah, a sailboat! Maybe with a motor or something in case there’s no wind. Or a paddle. Or a bunch of paddles. Or some oars. Yeah, so a boat. And then we’d sail around where there’s no big cities, and we’d catch fish and eat lots and lots of sushi. And we’d have tea at one in the afternoon every day like clockwork and steal the finest bone china from the sitting room of the Queen of England just for the pleasure. Well, you can have tea, I’ll have coffee. No, actually, we’re both red blooded Americans, and tea is unpatriotic. That’ll be a slap in the face to the queen, drinking coffee out of her finest china teacups. Shame for her, she seems like a pretty nice lady, tottering around the palace. Maybe we should steal it from the White House. Or Putin! Putin’s a scary man, I’m sure he has a nice set of china around, we’ll steal it. Or trade for it. I bet Putin’d go for that, yeah, definitely. Okay, so we’ve got the boat and we sail around and we eat sushi and drink some coffee during teatime to stick it to those silly brits, and we find some sort of island that’s terribly beautiful, like so beautiful it hurts to look at it every morning, which is why we’ll sleep in, either that or be masochists. We’ll need to find an island because I do have a bad seasickness problem, and while I’m sure I could handle it for a little while the constant puking would probably get old, and life on the sea can be pretty rough. And we’ll bring some sort of weak willed man with us who can impregnate me if I suddenly decide I need a child, because no offense Jack, but I’m afraid you might be dead and if you aren’t, I’m not sure you’d be up to it, I’m pretty sure that sort of thing has an expiration date if you know what I mean. So this island, we can totally pretend it’s like the island on Lost and it moves around and we can travel through time and stuff like that. And would you look at that this rant has pushed me over eight hundred words. This whole novel thing is going to be way harder than I thought. Well, I’ll keep going, might as well go for a thousand. So, we’re on the island with maybe a handful of weak willed individuals who we can lead and be benevolent rulers to them and all that. They’ll run errands for us and massage our feet suggestively and we’ll give them sage wisdom in return and keep them all from the brink of disaster. We’ll also breed exotic varieties of sheep on the island, by crossing a few that we brought with us on the boat to the large wild population on the island. And we’ll climb trees and film monkeys doing funny mating dances and take too many pictures of sunsets and we’ll write on rocks with permanent marker that’s absolutely permanent and we’ll give each other homemade tattoos and we’ll do all this because we want to make our mark on the world. We want to be remembered. We want our lives to have meant something, something that we choose. We’ll choose to be benevolent leaders of a terrifyingly beautiful island in the middle of an ocean who breed sheep, because we don’t want to be normal. We want to be incredibly abnormal.” I finished almost blue in the face, deflated.
“Well hon, you made one thousand words. That wasn’t so hard. 50,000 more to go in November.”