And then it hit me. And I remember the class being very quiet and me exclaiming “SON OF A BITCH!” and being beset by many glares and a smiling professor who said simply “Write it down!” That was probably Call Me Steve of Creative Non-Fic. More importantly, it was the moment I finally figured out why I write the way I do – my brother is a lefty. He taught me how to write without my even realizing it.
Son of a bitch.
Now I think about these things as my brother is due to set out on his biggest adventure yet, moving across the country to Arizona. As I write this he is probably just cruising through the west end of Massachusetts, his journey begins today. But it’s not the childhood things he taught me, or that trick with peanut butter after alcohol (for which I was ever grateful for all throughout college), it’s the little things he does without even realizing.
My brother taught me to believe in myself by making me promise to get him an Aston Martin when I get published. (Don’t worry bro, I’m working on Sigil the second I’m done here. You still wanted a Vanquish, right?). It was this crazy bastard who stood up for me at every turn, went to the ends of the fucking earth to make me smile. He begged, borrowed, and stole just to make my day.
He has a funny way of doing that, but he has that effect on people. You will meet him, and suddenly you’re dreaming bigger, seeing brighter. Rob’s a special kind of guy like that. He’ll teach you that you can rock anything with the right confidence, fake it until you make it, and above all else, that you are fucking worth it. That’s why he’s driving right now, probably blasting either dubstep or Black Keys (Dubstep Black Keys?), because life is too damn short to settle for anything less than the very fucking best you can be. And at the end of the day, the only one holding you back is yourself.