By J.A. Gooch
My fondness of the written word began at gestation. Well before I wiggled my way into the world on June 4, 1991, my mother settled into the sacred practice of reading aloud to me—me, her beloved, brainless, tadpole-like, lump of nothingness—as though I could actually hear her. And perhaps I did. For as I journeyed from the womb to the classroom, I continued to experience these indescribable literary impulses that nudged me into worlds unknown, glorious between-the-page sanctuaries that broadened my scope, forcing me to see humanity and myself in ways I never would have otherwise. And as I weaved my way in and out of the stacks of my local library, soaking up the magic soup that oozed from their shelves, I couldn’t help but think to myself, with every page I turned, “Damn, I want to do THAT!”
And THAT I did.
While I don’t know a great many things about myself (Who does in their angsty 20s?), there is one thing I am sure of: I am a writer. It’s my word—the very kernel of my identity. But perhaps a more fundamental truth is that I am a creator. And you, my friends—despite what you may believe—are creators, too. You see, we all have our own special magic soup brewing and stewing inside of us, things, that if not released, begin to gnaw away at our cores. One of the best ways I know to describe this state of creative unrest is, pardon the analogy, by likening it to a good poop (Bear with me here.). Much in the way we all need to . . . you know, so do we need to create. And when we can’t create, as you might’ve experienced a time or poo (Ba doom ting!), we are absolutely 100% freaking miserable.
If you are unable to appreciate my poop comparison, first of all, I have nothing to say to you (I mean, we all do it, right?). Nevertheless, if this is the case, I have yet another metaphor that might speak to you a little more.
Perhaps THE best way I can illustrate those moments of creative constipation (Okay, okay. I swear I’m done.), is the wilderness. So many times on my own creative pilgrimage, I have discovered myself parched and weary, lost in the dry heat of the great unknown. Unaware of where my next drop of inspiration will come from, I look to the heavens, straight into the blinding scorch of sun, begging the Creator of all creators to make it rain. But more often than not, despite my pleading and moaning, I am left to traverse the scary vastness of the wilderness. I used to think this was a sick joke; after all, why would the Universe gift me the desire to create without granting me the tools by which to do so—without satisfying my thirst? Adventure. The answer is adventure.
Just as much as the Universe wants you to create, it equally wants you to explore. And although the prospect of meandering through a desert without an iota of water in sight isn’t necessarily the most attractive adventure out there, the experience is nonetheless essential; it’s basically a creative rite of passage. And it is for that singular reason why the Universe doesn’t pick up the phone the first time or two we call. Like any good parent or teacher, it forces us to seek the answers for ourselves, especially those which are extremely obvious, hoping we learn a thing or two about ourselves and others along the way. Speaking of obvious answers, allow me to tell you about the easy pass (Wait! No one ever told you about the Wilderness Easy Pass?). My friends, it’s time to go to the watering hole.
Eventually, if you’ve been in the wilderness long enough, you will begin to smell a change in the air. And just there, where the sand meets the sky, you’ll notice something in the distance: sweet, sweet manna from heaven. Be aware, however, that if you’ve been subjected to the searing scorn of the desert sun for quite some time, you’re not going to simply mosey over to the watering hole. No way, José! Your body, eager to appease its thirst, will involuntarily bolt forward, throwing itself headfirst into the water, completely vanishing you into a magical portal of inspiration.
“Just where does this portal lead?” you might ask.
EVERYWHERE.
The portal, as I refer to it, is travel. As both a writer and a globetrotter, I can’t testify strongly enough to its power. Whether via the means of asphalt, air, water, or otherwise, travel possesses a special brand of magic. Much in the way of books, it exponentially expands creativity through emersion, forcing wanderers to see, hear, taste, smell, and feel things they never have before. It fosters a fierce sense of curiosity that encourages further curiosity. And that spirit of inquiry, my friends, is where inspiration is born.
Now, you need not make a spiritual quest to India or break the bank on a two-week excursion to the Caribbean in order to resurrect your old, dry bones (Although, if you would like to, more power to you. Can one possibly travel too much or achieve a high enough level of enlightenment?). All you really need is to escape for just a moment—to brave past the everyday-ness of your existence, which can be achieved through a humble day trip to the next town over or a simple weekend at the lake. Or, as I said before, if you want to walk the Great Wall, scale Everest, or sail the Grand Canal while wolfing down a crap ton of carbohydrates, then by all means, live that dream you freaking dreamer! The point I am trying to make here is simple: if you’re feeling a bit downtrodden about your art—no matter if you’re a writer, dancer, sculptor, or painter—and you don’t know where to turn, this magnificent world we live in can heal you. The question is whether or not you, my fellow creators, are willing and thirsty enough to venture beyond the wilderness?
