Searching For "Maps to Anywhere," By Bernard Cooper: My Personal "Serendipity," But With More Books And Less John Cusack

There are times when I question if I should actually be a writer. (As in someone who writes, not someone who makes money at it.) As if it is something I can choose. Like I could make a conscious choice to stop feeling the compulsion to write things down. Once, in a college writing class some of the students discussed where this compulsion sprang from. One student spoke of photographers, and how they need to take pictures to immortalize things, to stave off their fear of death, or the passage of time. There is admittedly, some of that at play here, I think. From a strictly historical stand point we could say, like the tree falling in the woods, if nobody writes it down, did it actually happen? So no, I couldn't stop writing if I chose to. But I could be less diligent. I could fall to the guilt that so many other things need my attention. Most notably these kids I've got running around my place. When I get into this sort of guilt-ridden mood I always think of one book, Maps to Anywhere, by Bernard Cooper. It isn't something outright said in the book that gets to me about writing and guilt, but rather, how I came by the book. I wholeheartedly feel it was kismet. This is going to sound incredibly sentimental, I get that. And not nearly as fantastical to the reader's mind as in mine. Still, it remains one thing, perhaps the one thing that evidences to me that this is something I was made for. I read the book in college, one essay, Roget's Thesaurus to be exact, as an assignment. I borrowed the book from the professor and quite simply devoured it. I searched in vain for my own copy. Bookstores were not brimming with it. The book was not exactly a page turner for normal people. But for an 18 year old that knows little of what can be done with language beyond Roald Dahl and Catcher in the Rye, it was an education in itself. I added the book to a list I would take with me to used bookstores. Years later I had resolved that I would probably never see the book again. But I'm sure you know that this is not where this story is going. So, one day after haranguing bookshop owner after bookshop owner... I found it, in the travel section. The travel section. My hands shook! I couldn't believe it! I took it home and devoured it again. Shortly after that all of the used bookstores started closing down. As ridiculous as it may sound, I still count finding that book, in an out-of-the-way, suburban used bookstore, among one of the miracles of my life.

There is a Sufi poet who wrote something to the effect of, God has drawn a circle around where you are standing right now. You have always been coming to this place. Right here. Right now.

So I think about writing. About whether or not it is a waste of time. About hiatusing from writing. About more time for the dishes, and exercise, and the little humans. And then I think about finding this thin, obscure book with an orange spine. What purpose could there be in our traveling to this one circle together? What purpose other than to remind me of the things that can be done with language, and to remind me that the Universe is rooting for me to do them.

P.S. I searched before typing this up and have found that Maps to Anywhere is now easily purchasable online. So if you want to read this book you will not have to search used bookstores for years upon end. However the intent of this post is not to convince you to read the book (though clearly I love it), but to simply write about the sometimes unanticipated effects books can have upon us.