Every now and then, I come across a piece of art that feels like it was made just for me. It could be a book, a film, a song—doesn’t matter. There’s this immediate, electric reaction in my body like every cell just lit up.
I don’t fall in love slowly with these works. It’s instant. Obsessive. Total. Like my creative soul just yelled, “YES. THIS.”
A couple of years back, I had one of those moments.
I was watching interviews by the legendary Canadian music journalist Nardwuar.
If you’re from Canada, you probably know exactly who I’m talking about, but for my international friends: Nardwuar is this unforgettable music journalist from Vancouver who dresses in plaid suits, speaks in a high, quirky voice, and seems like a total goofball… until he starts his interviews.
Underneath the funny hat and wacky vibes lies one of the most prepared and meticulous interviewers on the planet. The man does deep research. He’ll pull out an obscure vinyl record a band member recorded in high school, or mention a food they loved as a kid. The musicians are consistently stunned, and it makes for truly incredible conversations about music and art.
I was on a Nardwuar binge when I stumbled across an interview with an Australian band called Amyl and the Sniffers. I’d never heard of them before, but they looked like my kind of people: mullet-sporting, punk rock energy, and chaotic good vibes. So I did what I always do in these moments: I watched the interview, then headed to YouTube and typed in their name. First song to pop up? “Guided by Angels.”
I hit play.
And boom!
Even before the actual music started, during the cinematic silence at the beginning of the video—just the sound of people climbing into a car—I felt that tingling anticipation that something cool was about to happen. Then the bass and drums kicked in and I thought, Ohhhhh, what’s THIS? By the time the guitar and vocals arrived, I was done for. It was gritty and garagey, raw and alive. The lyrics? Fantastic. The video? Glorious chaos.
The lead singer is a whirlwind of energy, belting and thrashing and dancing her head off, while the rest of the band just chills in the background. It’s this awesome striking contrast. One YouTube commenter nailed it: “This is what it’s like if you do cocaine while all your friends are smoking weed.”
The verse goes, “Energy, good energy, bad energy, I’ve got plenty of energy”—and yeah, the band means it.
I immediately emailed the video to half a dozen people. Then I devoured the rest of their catalogue. Then I watched live concerts. It turns out they’re not just a one-hit wonder. They’re consistent. Solid. They have that dirty punk edge I love, the one where the raggedness is part of the magic and imperfection is part of the point.
It’s the kind of art that reminds you why being alive is worth it.
Eleven years ago, when I was sick with pneumonia and going through some heavy depression, I turned on the TV and saw this performance from Tegan and Sara. I hadn’t heard of them before. But their music moved me so profoundly in that moment that it made me want to live, and so I call them my pneumonia angels.
That’s the power of great art. It makes life feel new again. It reminds us that the world is still full of surprises.
And that, my friends, is why I’m a writing coach.
Because yes, I want to write stories that light people up. But I also want to help you do that. I want to help dozens—hundreds—of writers put their stories into the world. Because every one of those stories is a chance for someone out there to feel what I felt when I heard “Guided by Angels” or when I first discovered the films of David Lynch or the novels of Virginia Woolf or the comic books of Alan Moore.
Your story could be the thing that saves someone’s life, or at least makes their day a hell of a lot better.
But here’s the challenge: we live in an age of algorithmic culture.
Once upon a time, we thought the internet would be a fantastic tool for creating microcultures. You like obscure Icelandic sci-fi novels? Cool, you’ll find your people. But somewhere along the way, that utopia got overtaken by social media algorithms.
Now, instead of a thousand micro-cultures, we’ve got the monoculture all over again.
I took my daughter to see the remake of The Little Mermaid for her birthday a few years ago, and it was fine.
But did it ignite anything in her? In me? Not really.
It was familiar. Predictable. A retread.
This sameness is dulling us. And I don’t think yet another Disney live-action remake is going to make me want to leap out of bed in the morning.
But you know what might?
Your book. Your story.
So write it.
Write something weird. Something passionate. Something true. Something that will make someone, somewhere, sit up straight and feel like, “Holy crap. This was made for ME.”
Because art still matters.
It still changes lives.
And when the world feels gray and repetitive and algorithmically flattened, great art reminds us we’re still alive.
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Kevin T. Johns is a writing coach who helps authors create stories that wake people up, shake their souls, and remind them why art matters. Grab his free checklist for turning ordinary scenes into literary gold:
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