I’ve been listening to punk rock all of my life. When I was young, twelve, thirteen, I heard a song from an old Green Day album called “Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?” My sister had just recently read the book for school, and said I might like it. I was young and impatient and didn’t very much like to read, but a book with Billie Joe Armstrong’s endorsement got my attention at least. And so, I picked up Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger and read it that summer. I didn’t stop until it was done. And in the end, I felt so many things all at once. Relieved but heartbroken, especially. I’ve never read anything since that’s affected me quite as much.

But I’ve only just now realized that novel’s affect on me (thanks Jessica!). Particularly in the book I’m still working on now, called Valentine. I don’t think I’ve ever realized just how much Holden Caulfield has stayed with me all these years, become a part of my personality. It isn’t just the big surface things about Holden, either: his rebelliousness, his angst, the profanity, the loneliness as he straggles to find his way in the world filled with people he thinks are “phony.”

And then there are the little things about him that have popped up in my mind over time, even while writing. Like his empathy, his sympathy, his love. His wonderment about the ducks in New York City that disappear in the winter, and the actual worry he feels for them. And there’s the protectiveness he has of Phoebe, his little sister. His fascination and guardianship of her innocence as he watches her ride the carousel in the park towards the end. His reluctance to commit suicide for nearly infantile reasons – like it would be an ugly mess to see for the people on the street. The vivid memories he has of a girl, Jane, playing checkers on the front porch where she’d keep all her pieces in the back row, away from him, like a wall. And all of these things, almost every single one reminds me of myself, my own writing, the character I’ve been working on for the past two years: Adam. And it makes me wonder if I’ve been writing my own Catcher in the Rye all this time.

Then, of course, there’s the style through which Salinger told the story. The vivid imagery he pushed, like the field of rye Holden talked about, from which the title comes. And I wonder, have I replaced that field with red grass and a violet sky? The way he attacked things that seemed almost intangible or secret, especially in his day… like talking to a prostitute in his hotel room instead of sleeping with her, just because he was lonely. And as previously stated, the way he couldn’t go through with killing himself, no matter how broken he felt, because of the mess he’d leave in his wake. Really, it’s only now that I’m starting to see the connections, the similarities, the unconscious references I’ve been making back to that book for so long.

One thing I know for sure is I need to read it again. I’ve always looked back at it with great affection, knowing well that I wouldn’t be the same person if I hadn’t read it. More than anything else, more than the music I’ve heard or the films I’ve seen or the other authors whose work I’ve enjoyed, like Chuck Palahniuk or Will Christopher Baer, Salinger is, most of all, the one who made me most want to write, and in the times I’ve found myself heartbroken or tremendously depressed where I’ve thought of suicide much like Holden, Salinger, too, has reminded me no, no, it would be much too ugly, it would leave such a mess. And so I guess I must thank him again, not just for the inspiration to write, but to live as well, just to keep on living through good times and bad.