When I was a kid, I was obsessed with different planets in the

Hear, O seekers of imagination and builders of worlds, the words of James Gunn, who confessed with the wonder of a child: “When I was a kid, I was obsessed with different planets in the solar system, and I used to create, for every single planet, a different alien race with a certain kind of pet, a certain kind of house, a certain kind of water system, and everything. I would draw these pictures. I had hundreds of these pictures in a box.” These words, though humble and playful, reveal the seed of a creator, the origin of one who would grow to weave stories that touch millions.

For in childhood, the mind is unbound by cynicism and duty. It soars across stars, creating worlds where no rule yet forbids it. Gunn’s obsession with planets was not simply an idle fancy; it was the pure exercise of imagination. To give each world its own alien race, its own pets, houses, and waters was to breathe life into dreams, to play the role of the divine craftsman shaping universes from nothing but wonder and a pencil. The box of pictures he kept was not merely storage—it was a treasury, the ark of a young god training his hand in creation.

This is the way of many great makers: their roots lie not in classrooms or lectures, but in the long hours of childhood where imagination is given room to play. Consider, O listener, the tale of Leonardo da Vinci, who as a boy sketched flying machines and fantastical beasts, filling page after page with inventions that seemed foolish to his elders, yet later became marvels that inspired generations. Gunn’s hundreds of drawings in a box are kin to Leonardo’s notebooks: seeds of greatness scattered long before they bore fruit.

The meaning of this saying is clear: true creation springs from curiosity that dares to be excessive, from obsession that does not fear being called strange. To invent not one alien race but many, not one picture but hundreds, is to let imagination run like a river, uncontained. This abundance is not waste, but training—the practice of a spirit preparing itself for the great works it will one day offer the world.

Let this be a lesson, O child of tomorrow: do not scorn your obsessions, your drawings, your games, your countless unfinished attempts. For within them lies your craft. The pictures in the box may seem childish now, but they are the foundation stones of your cathedral. What you make in play, you may one day shape in mastery. Gunn’s childish sketches of planets and creatures became the groundwork for stories of galaxies told on the world’s grandest stages.

Practical action follows: nurture the box of pictures in your own life. Keep the notebook where you sketch, the files where you write, the melodies you hum to yourself. Do not throw them away in shame, for though they seem small, they are sparks of the greater fire you carry. And if you are a parent, teacher, or elder, encourage the child who fills boxes with drawings or stories, for they may be training not only their hand but their soul for a destiny beyond your sight.

Therefore, remember Gunn’s wisdom: “When I was a kid, I was obsessed with different planets… I had hundreds of these pictures in a box.” In these words lies the eternal truth: greatness begins in the unguarded wonder of youth, in the freedom to imagine wildly and abundantly. Protect that wonder, for it is the root of creation. And when the world grows heavy and practical, return to the box of pictures, and remember that you too are a maker of worlds.