To me, life is one (hopefully) long journey, full of dirt roads, blind alleys, and exhilarating straightaways. Some people pick a target and spend their days marching inexorably towards it, while others zig and zag, trying to see as much as possible. It’s doubtful that there is a wrong choice, since we’re all headed for the same place, and my only advice for travellers is to wear comfortable shoes.
In my first novel, The Last Prospector, many journeys start with the birth of a special baby. All of the characters are travelling separate roads to the same place.
Travelling is a metaphor for living, and there are many kinds of travellers. Some people make their finest discoveries at home, because a journey of the mind is as valuable as a physical one. Some people can think their way down a road with the same ease as walking, and they reap the same rewards. Other people pack a bag and literally travel, seeing the world with their physical eyes and leaving a mark on all the places they visit.