If you were to leave my house and drive north, you’d find yourself on a long flat bridge that’s low enough for you to see alligator eyes. They poke up out of the water like rocks, watch you for a few seconds, then submerge. Above the bridge is no less interesting. Its lamp posts tower above the road, so tall that osprey and bald eagles perch on them. If you pay attention, you might even see one dive off to catch a fish.

Crossing this bridge may sound fascinating, but once you’ve done it dozens of times, it’s the sort of experience that could be mistaken for monotonous.

Years ago, when my kids were quite little and battling the forces of boredom, I nodded toward a distant island. “Check out Monster Island,” I said. “Looks like something’s brewing.”

They looked and saw what anyone would see: a small island that appears to be made entirely of tall grasses, with just a few palm trees to add texture.

But they also saw monsters.

Monster Island, they explained to me, is populated by monsters with long purple hair that blends in with the tall grass. They also have oversized gnashing teeth that can chomp alligators in a single bite, which is why you never see any alligators near it.

As we drove away, we talked about the monsters and the island, and just how dangerous it would be to take a boat out there, but also how cool it would be to take a boat out there.

I don’t remember what happened on the rest of that trip. None of it rose to the level of significance of Monster Island.

As we were driving back across the bridge, I couldn’t resist bringing up Monster Island again. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Monster island’s on the other side of the bridge!”

My oldest laughed. “I didn’t know it moved!”

“Nah-ah,” his little brother said. “It didn’t move. We’re just going the other way.”

“I’m not saying it did or it didn’t,” I said. “I’m just saying it was on our right earlier, and now it’s on our left.”

“It did too move,” my oldest asserted. “I bet a monster carried it across.”

As easy as that, we were back in the story. Monster Island, it turns out, is actually held up by a giant monster, the biggest of all the monsters. He’s nice, though, not like the others, and he holds the island in the lake to keep the other monsters trapped on it.

Understanding Monster Island

You may recognize Monster Island as an exercise in collaborative storytelling: one person tosses out an idea (“something’s happening at Monster Island”), then another adds to it and tosses it back. As the story passes from person to person, it morphs and changes.

You may also recognize the secret equation lurking in the depths behind Monster Island.

Both of those things are undoubtedly true, but let me add a little more context so we can get to the real magic.

The story of Monster Island happened about 15 years ago. Since then, it’s been a part of my family’s shared culture. To this day, if you were to ask any of us about Monster Island, we’d be able to speak definitively on the subject.

Why?

My family, undoubtedly like yours, has been through a lot. Tragedies and triumphs swirl through our history like a confusing maelstrom. How could the story of Monster Island possibly be important enough to remain with us? How could any of our stories matter?

The hard answer is that I have no idea.

All I know is that the things we create matter. Whether it’s a story or a joke or a poem or a meal or a piece of artwork, what you create matters. When you bring something new into this world, you’re adding to the tapestry that connects us. You’re building something you can rely on when life starts throwing punches.

So the next time you feel tired or beat down, or start thinking there’s no point to what you’re creating, take a breath. Go outside. Remember Monster Island.

Because there’s something brewing at Monster Island, and it’s more beautiful than you or I could imagine.

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