Plunging Into the Unknown: On Travel and Writing
Author Winnie M Li discusses the appeal of travel and writing and how the two activities are very similar and worthwhile.
I’ve been a lifelong travel addict—and for me, writing and traveling are closely intertwined. The first time I stepped onto an intercity bus at the age of 14, traveling from North Jersey to South Jersey on my own, I felt an unmistakable thrill venturing into the unknown. I was going to places I hadn’t visited before, and relying solely on my own wits. There was a danger, but also a wonder to it—that I could get this far alone, and could go even farther.
In the same way, writing offers me that exciting plunge into the unknown. I have a vague idea of the direction I’m headed in, but it’s impossible to predict every twist and turn. And in the same way that reading about a place is entirely different from visiting it in person, envisioning a scene before it’s written rarely matches with how the scene ends up. But that’s part of the wonder of it all.
In the great writing wars of plotters vs. pantsers (writers who plot everything in advance vs. those who go by the seat of their pants), I’m very much a pantser. When I write a novel, I know the general arc of the story, and the big, climactic scenes that I’m moving towards. But the intricacies of the plot, the details of each character, the choices they make, which then lead to new developments… all these elements get worked out along the way.
It's the unpredictability of writing which I love, and it’s akin to the unpredictability of travel. We’re forced to be spontaneous, to follow our intuition. If I’m wandering through a new city, and glimpse a dazzling piazza down an unnamed lane, I’m going to go explore it, even if I don’t exactly know what it leads to. But it intrigues me, and that’s enough of a reason to go there.
This kind of wanderlust has taken me to more than 65 countries (and counting) and to living a life abroad. But for me, travel is more than simply a metaphor for the act of writing. After all, it’s how I come up with my best creative ideas. Every time I find myself staring out a train window at the unspooling landscape, my mind wanders—in a good way. Free of the usual To-Do list that dominates my life at home, the traveling version of me finally has the room to exercise my imagination. I might glimpse a striking scene—say, a lone man walking his dog on a barren landscape—and that might pique my curiosity. What would it be like to be that man, watching a train race past his isolated stretch of the earth? Or to be his dog?
It's this shift in perspective which travel grants us, taking us out of our comfort zone and into a state of un-belonging. And that shift in perspective fosters empathy. We’re led to see the places where other people make their homes, and go on their daily walks. We start to imagine what their lives might be like.
For me, it’s solo travel which particularly sharpens our powers of observation. When we travel on our own in a foreign place, we automatically pay more attention to everything around us: road signs, the reactions of strangers, the atmosphere of a neighborhood. Some of this is survival instinct (particularly as a woman of color traveling on my own), and it’s also necessary, in order to get from A to B.
But heightened powers of observation also make us excellent people-watchers, who can pick up on the silent tension between a couple, even though we may not understand the words they’re saying. Or imagine the dynamic between three little children, as they wait impatiently for a bus with their frazzled mother. Even though cultures might be different, some interpersonal dynamics are universal.
My latest novel What We Left Unsaid gave me the chance to both celebrate the unpredictability of travel and dramatize certain sibling dynamics I’ve observed over the years. The story of three estranged adult siblings who are forced to drive Route 66 together, the plot of the novel is driven equally by the external landscapes and events that the protagonists encounter on their journey, but also their internal reactions to these landscapes and each other.
The clash between the siblings’ personalities is epitomized in their attitudes towards travel: the oldest sister who plans everything and books 5-star hotels in advance, the youngest sister who prefers to wing it, the middle son who just wants to drive Route 66 in order to escape his own home life. Somewhere along the way, as they venture further out of their comfort zone, these siblings start to reconcile their very different mindsets. In the process, they uncover the hidden histories of America, as well as their own immigrant family.
But to be perfectly honest, I think I came up with the idea for this novel, so I could have an excuse to drive Route 66. Perhaps in my own middle age, saddled with parenthood and responsibilities, I needed a work project to justify booking airplane tickets for myself, my partner, and toddler from London to Chicago, renting an SUV, and driving 3,400 miles over three weeks to reach California. Because otherwise, that kind of trip would simply be too… spontaneous.
In the end, I couldn’t have written this novel without going on that road trip and venturing into the unknown. It was one very roundabout way of satisfying my wanderlust. But I don’t regret it for one bit, and neither does my family.
Check out Winnie M Li's What We Left Unsaid here:
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