Matt Groening once did a great Life in Hell strip that took the form of a map of Bongo’s neighborhood. At one end of a street that wound among yards and houses stood Bongo, the little one-eared rabbit boy. At the other stood his mother, about to blow her stack—Bongo was late for dinner again. Between mother and son lay the hazards —labeled angry dogs, roving gang of hooligans, girl with a crush on bongo—of any journey through the Wilderness: deadly animals, antagonistic humans, lures and snares. It captured perfectly the mental maps of their worlds that children endlessly revise and refine. Childhood is a branch of cartography.

See also: my posts on worldbuilding and maps of fictional worlds.

I view [my books] as souvenirs of content you could get less conveniently and less organized for free online if you chose to…

Souvenirs of content! Love this idea. More from Hugh MacLeod:

If you wanted to give your favorite cousin a nice birthday present, what would you rather do? Give him a copy of your favorite author’s latest book, or just e-mail him a link to the author’s blog? What would your cousin think if you tried the latter? Exactly.

And why do people pay $30 for a “I HEART NEW YORK” t-shirt, when they can walk down Fifth Avenue for free? Different objects, both molecular and digital, offer different totemic, emotional and social value for their user, which alters the inherent experience. Does the music on a Rolling Stones album that you found in the bargain bin of a record store, differ from the same album that Keith Richards personally autographed and gave to you? Technically, no. But the social context GREATLY adds to the overall experience and value.

See more on “what if we give it away?”

Some might be a little surprised by this, but I used to play a lot of golf with my dad. He gave me the same advice:

When I was young, maybe 6 or 7 years old, I’d play on the Navy golf course with my pop. My dad would say, “Okay, where do you want to hit the ball?” I’d pick a spot and say I want to hit it there. He’d shrug and say, “Fine, then figure out how to do it.” He didn’t position my arm, adjust my feet, or change my thinking. He just said go ahead and hit the darn ball. My dad’s advice to me was to simplify. He knew that at my age I couldn’t digest all of golf’s intricacies. He kept it simple: If you want to hit the ball to a particular spot, figure out a way to do it. Even today, when I’m struggling with my game, I can still hear him say, “Pick a spot and just hit it.” When I’m making adjustments during a round, I know some of the television commentators theorize that I’m changing this or moving that, but really what I’m doing is listening to Pop.