Your travel writing is pithy, funny, and ‘beautifully written’…but does it matter? Josh Johnson wonders how we can make our travel writing more relevant.RECENTLY I THOUGHT: Does what I write matter? Aside from being a way to express myself, does my writing actually serve a purpose?It seems to me that most travel writing doesn’t matter.
Yesterday I found this interesting Mashable article about digital storytelling. The article featured four projects, two of which really struck my attention: “Bear 71” and “Welcome to Pine Point.”Both were produced by Tom Perlmutter, president of the National Film Board of Canada. “This is where social media is interesting, artistically.
Stories of travel culture are found everywhere. Why are we only telling 1 ?FIRST, A DISCLAIMER: this is not a submission call. Matador isn’t endorsing or condoning the actual production of, or requisite behavior involved in producing the following stories, some of which are potentially dangerous, others illegal, and others probably impossible.
You should stop traveling alone.Not because it’s dangerous. Your level of danger when you’re out in the wind has little to do with the number of travelers in the group and a lot to do with where you go and the choices you make.Not because it’s lonely. Solitary travelers meet other solitary travelers easily.
Mexico / Ohio“Si Te Vas” by Shakira You’re hanging out with these girls who eat literally everything: from crazy shit like oxtail soup and Szechuan-style frog legs to the cheesy bread at Red Lobster. You make pilgrimages from Oberlin to Cleveland to feed their cravings. There’s high-performing Sophia, editor of your campus newspaper and a concert pianist.
GROWING UP IN THE NEVADA DESERT, nothing cut through the 110-degree stupor like a family outing to Wet and Wild, the local water park. Despite my debilitating fear of heights, precious few things kept me from trudging up the trillions of stairs, looking down, and immediately regretting my decision before being forcibly pushed into the tube by the burly guy regulating human pileups.
I cycled by the President’s house for the first time the other day, my bike indiscreetly grinding metal against metal like a blacksmith. Passing the bayonets of one of the soldiers out front, I wondered what they would make of a clown on a unicycle effortlessly cruising along the well-guarded path. I imagined the patchwork joker would end up where most clowns end up after a hard day’s work: alone with their makeup running in a cold dark room.
![47°C: Life in the Kalahari [pics]](https://jorgemolder.com/img/mata-2020/3094/image_og7okVACVX19g14.jpg)
