"ALL HAIL, JACK AND JIM"

Some mentors have a major influence, while others serve as supporting cast. In my decision to become a writer, two men played key roles.

“ALL HAIL, JACK AND JIM”

Some mentors have a major influence, while others serve as supporting cast. In my decision to become a writer, two men played key roles. The first is famous. The other is unknown, except to his family and devoted friends, of which I was one.

            Jack Kerouac inspired me unlike any other author I had ever read. It wasn’t so much his prose that captured my attention during a daydreaming teenage summer in Dayton, Ohio. It was his sensitive, creative spirit. Kerouac showed me I could embrace the athletic and artistic sides of my nature. He saw poetry in all parts of life, from a high school football game and first romance to the Zen of loneliness and heartbreak.

Of course, I searched for commonality. We were both Catholic with French surnames and hailed from the Northeast. Kerouac had served in the Merchant Marine in WWII as did my father. We loved competitive sports but shunned violence. We both prized friendship.

Jack Kerouac was buried on my 17th birthday, October 24, 1969. A short five years later, I was to meet Jim Bernard, another writer and gentle soul, who encouraged my literary dreams. We had first met as rivals for the same pretty woman at a Sacramento party. Later we commiserated over several beers in a late-night rap session after we had both been rejected.

I quickly learned that Bernard and I were Beat Generation fans, who had read the same Kerouac novels and assorted sagas. I thought I was well versed, but his knowledge far surpassed mine. Bernard also introduced me to new authors like Richard Brautigan and lesser-known novels like “Sometimes a Great Notion” by Ken Kesey.

But the greatest gift he gave me was his friendship. Early on he asked if I wanted to be a writer. I responded as if on a job interview. “Sure, but I can’t make a living doing that. After I retire, I’ll write.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he barked. “You’re 22. You’re gonna wait 40-some years to start writing?”

His words were a sucker punch, a cold shower, a shrill wake-up call. My soul shouted loud and clear: “Forget your public administrator, wife and two kids, house in the suburbs mindset, Massé!” In one conversation, Jim Bernard had unraveled my best laid plans and jump-started my creativity.

“What do I write?” I asked dumbfounded.

“It doesn’t matter. Just write,” he said on that memorable night.

And now almost 50 years later, I thank both Lord Jim and Brother Jack for getting me on the road to authorship.

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