You wouldn’t really know it, the way he talks himself down. "I’m not a creative,“ he says, "I’m a conceptualist.”
(First of all, love, that’s bullshit.) Call it what you will – he’s my inspiration.
From the day we met, he’s found ways to encourage me. To guide me towards clearer answers. He doesn’t believe in giving a man a fish; he’d rather teach the man to fish, then hang around to give him hints on where the most bites might be. I’m one of several artists he’s taken under his wing in the time that I’ve known him (plus several legacy friends who were there long before me), and we all swear by his leadership.
He’ll talk that down too. "I do what I can,“ he dodges, or, "I’m okay. We’ll see.”
We’ll see, indeed. We do see, we artists at his feet. (I don’t mean to imply he is on a pedestal, although I am guilty of that on occasion; think of an artistically-focused Socrates and his pupils.) We live in murky worlds in our own heads, caught up in defining that pinpoint of light that is our idea instead of opening ourselves up to the vast possibilities around it. His questions lead us there, and teach us to walk those paths every time, not just at his prompting. We see how to refine our ideas, how to give them purpose and hone in on their audience.
His own practice is, if not religious, fervent. He picks up his stylus, or pen, or mouse, or pencil, and he practices. Sometimes the devotion is solely to one project, with dedication like blinders. Sometimes he flits from new skill to new skill – but he always practices for an hour. Then he stops. He stops like the writing books always told me to: in the middle of something, so when you return there is a live wire of mental energy waiting to run through the story.
He makes dragons and starfighters, bubble cities and patchwork ships, fantastical cats and ogreish faces. He reaches out to the creative people he has placed around him, offering to bring their ideas to life. He gives his time. A leader to laugh at is a leader who promises the world and gives nothing. He is not that leader.
Rejection slips, letters, calls – they aren’t new to him. Neither is perseverance. He has faced – and is ready to face – all manner of rejection, on his own behalf or for his teams. He is ready to take the brunt of that, standing in the way to soften the blow. He steps away from his ego and he listens with a level gaze and a reasonable mindset.
It is a miracle that he is real. I count myself as the luckiest one: I feel his reality when he pulls me close at night, and marvel at his being in the morning light. He makes me believe. Belief is such a fleeting thing that it is a miracle to feel it enduring. He makes me believe that I can realize my ideas, that practicing every day will make me better. Just by his actions, without a single word, he taught me how to write for myself, every day, how to make that a lifestyle and not an odious chore.
He absorbs knowledge, takes it in like a sponge – intimidating, yes, but moreover it’s refreshing. The speed with which he devours new content is staggering, yet it reminds us to stay hungry. To see a leader so delight in the accumulation of knowledge, well, none of us are off the hook now, are we?
If there is one thing to take away from the briefest of encounters (for I could write books on him), it is this: invest in yourself, and invest in your village. Admire in others what you want to see in yourself, and then invest in that, if you really want it. He teaches me how to be better.