I’d like to tell you about a very special person.

For people like me with a creative inclination and an infallible mind of self-doubt, it often seems impossible to do anything that could possibly manifest the plethora of ideas swirling around our heads at any given moment. Between the trail of tears remnant of so many attempts that never worked out, often due to our own misjudgments and the constant fear of being judged for not expressing a thought in a way digestible to our audience, however small that may be (or may be intended), there’s a constant cloud of inhibition swirling between all our best ideas and clouding our desire to make anything for anyone…including ourselves. Add to that the ever persistent threat of random feeling of Imposter Syndrome any time we do force our work together and receive any sort of positive feedback, and it’s a wonder we dare to breathe some days for fear of not succeeding.

That’s not to say that it never happens, that nothing is ever created, because even through the crippling anxiety of imagined rejection and overly exaggerated fear of failure, there are still times when we feel we should move forward or even that we must move forward…with an idea just to live within our own minds and justify ourselves to our self. And these works, though probably not the greatest of our ideas or an adequate demonstration of the skills we’ve developed in secret, do manifest in the real world. Some even get shared. Fewer still are rewarded with some sort of praise. And for these we live.

Everyone remembers coming home with a drawing or a macaroni art project from school and being thoroughly praised by a family member they looked up to. Well, everyone with any semblance of a normal childhood I suppose. As we grew older we learned that those project, those masterpieces were filed in the round bin and eventually biodegraded next to someone’s leftover dinner in the great Art Depository In The Sky. But we also came to know that the praise wasn’t for the work we presented, but for the effort we made to make it. For most, I think it probably ends there.

For creatives, there’s another event. There’s another creation, this time not encouraged by a great Kindergarten teacher (or forced upon us by our evil 2nd Grade teacher…looking at you Ms. Koska), but instead it’s one we created all our own. Whether a drawing, or a poem, a melody…or a comedic perception of the world around us that really clicked with the people we shared it with, that received genuine praise. It was something we were proud of that was welcomed by those we shared it with. It was something that added value to another person’s existence, even if only for a brief, uncapturable moment. And that instance, that perceived success is what carries a creative forward.

When I was 15 I discovered my creative side. Then my 11th Grade English teacher at Highland High School sent us through a journey of poetry. We didn’t read all the classics, learning the deeper meanings behind the writings of tons of dead people I never cared about. We wrote. We read each other’s writings. Then we wrote some more. I remember the first day of class she said, “This is a creative writing class, not a creative reading class.” She held the very unAmerican belief that studying how people wrote only taught you to write like them. We gave us a blank, yet structured canvas with which to explore our ideas. It was the year I discovered George Carlin’s comedy, and though I may never remember her name, like George Carlin, I will never forget the impact her way of thinking had on allowing me to develop my own way of thinking. And writing.

I explored writing poetry for years. When I was forced to move back to Indiana later that year I began writing short essays on my life and thoughts as a teenager. I kept a journal, several in fact, that alternated between poetry, essays, and diary-style writings that catalogued the major events in my and all my friends’ lives in sometimes excruciating and explicit detail. These journals were kept secret, of course, and were strongly protected by all those in my small group of closest friends. I kept it secret for fear of embarrassment from both my creative writing and the details of my teen life…and my friends kept them secret because 1) they knew I was not going to stop writing, and 2) they knew all their stories were in those journals as well. They were only compromised on two occasions…once when my mom found one and only got as far as reading some song lyrics I had written (“Don’t Damn Me” by Guns n’ Roses) which she attributed to me and actually praised me for, ironic since I never earned much praise from her otherwise, and once when Kent’s mom let slip a bit of knowledge she would not have known had she not read some of my journal entries. Kent and I both recognized the implications immediately and the vast majority, save for some of the poetry, was burned in a barrel later that evening.

I attempted to get back into writing poetry when the birth of my daughter Amber was imminent. It was great way to flush the thoughts of a scrambled mind and thusly a great source of stress relief for a soon-to-be first-time father. The problem was that when the creative juices flowed, it was free and uncensored. However the thoughts came to my mind, they ended up on the page. My first wife found some of the poetry, merely first drafts mostly, and assumed I was writing about other women. I was not, but the unfinished, hurriedly jotted half-rhymes about my unborn daughter sure seemed like it to her. It was a big enough argument that I stopped writing again. That was the last time I was truly uninhibited with my creativity.

Which brings us to today. Yes, there’s a lot in between then and now, but this post is already long enough without me explaining the repeating cycle any more. Those were the big ones.

These days I am still wary of my own creativity. Be it podcasting, photography, or just posts like these, there’s always a part of me that is deathly afraid of the imminent rejection…or worse, the complete lack of any reaction…to everything I do. So why continue doing anything, then?

Well, there’s two reasons. First, I am a creative. Even if I am not a “good” creative, there’s still a drive in me, intrinsic to who I am as much as breath itself, that needs to be expressed. It’s just who I am.

Second, there’s Mike. Mike is so many things to me. Mike reads my tweets and writes back when I’ve expressed an idea he shares. Mike reads these blog posts and tells me about how they make him feel via DM. Mike sees my photos and can identify with not just the image, but with the intent behind the taking of the shot. Mike listens to my podcasts and knows more about me and the way I think than I do sometimes. Mike sees me at a meet up for someone else and hangs out to talk to me about the experiences we share simultaneously letting me feel like and old friend and a minor celebrity at the same time. And by doing all this, Mike lets me know that my creativity, my efforts are making a difference. That even if only for a brief, uncapturable moment, I added value to another person’s existence.

“Mike” isn’t just one person, though a real-life Mike did inspire this post. And “Mike” isn’t just an idea I carry with me alone. Many creatives have their own “Mike” (and, based on simple maths, I imagine many of those “Mikes” are named Mike as well).

But here’s the thing: every creative needs a “Mike”. Every creative, no matter how confident they are, needs to know they are making someone’s life just a little better, even if only for a brief, uncapturable moment.

When’s the last time you told your favorite, lesser-known (or immensely popular) creative that they made your life just a smidge better? Thumbs up and hearts are one thing…when’s the last time you expressed it in words?

Be like Mike. Mike is an important person.

DBD/DBAD/DFTBA

-Amos