6

STAY FOOLISH

I’m an artist and if you give me a tuba I’ll bring you something out of it.

—John Lennon

The smarter you are, the harder it is to see, understand, and create something new. It’s the paradox of education. The greatest creators don’t mind taking on something new. They never consider themselves fully educated. Many have little patience for traditional education. They’re not looking to be the smartest or most praised or most degreed. They’re aiming to keep igniting and keep learning. They never mind becoming an amateur again.

Amateurs are not afraid. They’re in love, so to speak. They don’t hesitate to do work that others think is a waste of time. They will try anything if it will teach them, inspire them, simplify them.

“The stupidest possible creative act is still a creative act,” explains Clay Shirky in his book Cognitive Surplus. “On the spectrum of creative work, the difference between the mediocre and the good is vast. Mediocrity is, however, still on the spectrum; you can move from mediocre to good in increments. The real gap is between doing nothing and doing something.”

Amateurs believe that creating something, even a rudimentary something, is better than creating nothing.

And they’re right.

When you create, creativity becomes a constant—no matter how unqualified you are.

“Amateurs might lack formal training,” writes Austin Kleon in his entertaining and insightful treatise Show Your Work! “but they’re all lifelong learners.” He points to Infinite Jest author David Foster Wallace who described good nonfiction as a chance to “watch somebody reasonably bright but also reasonably average pay far closer attention and think at far more length about all sorts of different stuff than most of us have a chance to in our daily lives.”

“Amateurs fit the same bill,” says Kleon. “They’re just regular people who get obsessed by something and spend a ton of time thinking out loud about it.” By far the most common place where creative sparks reside is any place where you can learn through action, even awkward, bumbling action. Being an amateur creator is not conceding that you’ll never become a pro. Nor is it conceding that mediocre creations are the goal. It’s conceding that to become a pro, and remain a pro, you have to remain willing to become a fool in love, again and again.

In his speech to the 2005 graduating class of Stanford, Steve Jobs explained what it has meant to him to remain foolish. He spoke about the promise his parents made to his birth mother—Jobs was adopted at birth—that he would go to college one day. When it was time to enroll, Jobs chose Reed College, a private liberal arts institution in Portland, Oregon, that, Jobs pointed out, was nearly as expensive as Stanford. His parents weren’t wealthy and six months into his college career it became clear, at least to him, that it didn’t make much sense to continue on the path and suck every penny from his working-class parents’ savings. Jobs formally dropped out and began “dropping in on” classes that interested him. One of them was calligraphy. Reed offered one of the best courses in the country at the time.

Sleeping on friends’ dorm floors and scraping by on every cent he could muster, Jobs dove into the class with no previous experience, only an honest interest. “I learned about serif and sans serif typefaces,” he explained, “about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can’t capture, and I found it fascinating.”

None of it was practical at the time, Jobs admitted. But he enjoyed it and he learned from it. Then the ember of calligraphy know-how flickered to low heat as he took a greater interest in computers and programming. One of his early programming jobs, if you recall, was working a one-year stint as a contractor for Nolan Bushnell and Atari. Then one day the calligraphy came back to him as he and Steve Wozniak were designing the first Macintosh computer.

“We designed [the calligraphy] into the Mac,” Jobs told the Stanford students. “It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, it’s likely that no personal computer would have them.”

It was a peculiar story to share with an audience full of students who had just completed one of the toughest undergrad paths a college student can take in this country. Especially given the lifetime of fascinating anecdotes Jobs had in his back pocket about success and failure and entrepreneurship and goals—the typical graduation speech fodder. But Jobs was making an important point and he needed an obscure, seemingly silly story to do it.

“When I was young,” he continued, “there was an amazing publication called the Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation . . . created by a fellow named Stewart Brand. . . . This was in the late 1960s, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and Polaroid cameras. . . . It was idealistic and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.”

When the Whole Earth Catalog released its final issue in the 1970s, “I was your age,” Jobs told the crowd. “On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: ‘Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.’

“I have always wished that for myself. And now . . . I wish that for you.”

Constant creators hold tight to one constant, when all is falling apart and when all is thriving: foolishness. This is different from embracing the mind of a beginner who is willing to learn from anything. Foolishness is in the doing. It’s an ability to embrace ideas, opportunities, and paths that we know are impractical and will break us down. Being foolish is doing what the majority would call stupid, senseless, or a waste of time.

To grind your sparks and spark your grind . . .

STAY FOOLISH

In his book How Bad Do You Want It? author Matt Fitzgerald describes a natural phenomenon that occurs when we are subjected to a scenario, often an adverse one, that requires us to relearn something from scratch—essentially, when we are subjected to becoming an amateur again. Fitzgerald calls the phenomenon the workaround effect.

He tells the story of Django Reinhardt, the legendary jazz player who was a virtuoso by the time he was eighteen years old. Later, a house fire badly burned the middle and ring fingers of his fret hand, leaving them paralyzed. He was forced to either put down his guitar and learn something else or learn how to play guitar all over again with eight fingers instead of ten. He chose the latter. The result was a new solo style that the music world called hot jazz. Critics judged Reinhardt’s new style better than his original one. It was this style that he used to become a legend.

“The workaround effect comes in several flavors,” explains Fitzgerald. “The flavor we’re discussing here is known to scientists as neuroplasticity. The brain is highly plastic: It has almost unlimited ability to reorganize itself in response to roadblocks affecting its normal operations. For example, the brain of someone who loses her sight rewires itself in ways that sharpen the other senses.”

He references a 2014 experiment by Anita Haudum of the University of Salzburg, who asked a group of runners to wear a pant leg of elastic tubing from the hip to the ankle to simulate an injury to that leg. The runners were obviously awkward at first but electromyography showed that because the tubing required greater muscle function, after seven weeks these runners showed greatly improved efficiency, not just with the tubing on but when they were allowed to run unrestrained. Fitzgerald explains, “This unconsciously learned new stride was not, in fact, visibly different from the subjects’ natural stride, yet it was achieved through different patterns of brain and muscle activation. In effect, the subjects had found a new way to run the old way.”

A similar but far more unfortunate thing happened to Willie Stewart when he was an eighteen-year-old recent high school grad working for a roofing company in Washington, D.C. The details are gruesome. He and a coworker were using a rope to clean off debris from an old roof they were replacing, when the rope inexplicably became wrapped around his arm. At the same time, the other end was pulled into a giant industrial fan. In an instant, the young man, a talented rugby player and a state champion wrestler, lost his arm.

Stewart sank into a depression following the accident, becoming a shell of his former driven, athletic self. He spent most days in a recliner and most evenings partying. This was in the 1980s, an era when resources for physically impaired athletes were not widely available. He would have remained in this state if not for Julie Moss and the 1982 Ironman triathlon.

Stewart was in his recliner watching the coverage of the sporting event when he witnessed Moss’s now famous crawl across the finish line in soiled shorts to finish second in the women’s competition.

“Somewhere deep inside Willie, a flame was ignited,” writes Fitzgerald. “Feeling inspired (and impulsive), he immediately went out and bought a white-and-red–striped one-piece Scott Tinley triathlon racing suit. He put it on and drove to Lake Elsa (now called Lake Audubon), and dived in.”

This was the beginning of a new life for Stewart as a triathlete. He would have to relearn everything that once came naturally—swimming with one arm, biking with one arm, and running with one arm. But Stewart never looked back. In 1998, he qualified for the Winter Paralympics in Nagano, Japan, and then, in 2002, he won a silver medal in the Nordic relay.

But as Fitzgerald points out, his goal was never to compete against disabled athletes. He wanted to compete against able-bodied ones, as he once did. The same year he won the silver medal at the Paralympics, Stewart applied for the lottery of Ironman slots awarded each year to disabled athletes and won one. A few months later he was in Hawaii waiting for the starter’s gun.

Stewart finished his first Ironman in 10:48:15, which won him the disabled competition and placed him 532nd overall. It was only the beginning. He completed the Ironman three more times and then moved on to other grueling races like a 100-kilometer trail run, 100-mile mountain bike races, and 24-hour adventure races. “In 2006,” Fitzgerald writes, “Willie won the Catalina Marathon—not the disabled division or his age group but the whole race.”

He explained, “As Willie Stewart discovered in learning how to ride a bike and to swim with one arm . . . it is impossible for an athlete faced with such a situation to consciously deduce how best to modify his technique and then programmatically acquire the new movement pattern. He must instead simply create and allow for opportunities to let it happen on its own.”

There is clearly a distinct difference between traumatically losing a limb and being forced to relearn how to function, and remaining relatively healthy and trying something new. But the distinction is in the circumstances, not in the approach to learning.

This is why, when a friend or fan wonders aloud what Willie might have accomplished with both arms, Stewart always gives the same answer: “I wouldn’t have done any of it.”

Constant creators remain in a state of constant wonder. Not merely the kind of surreal wonder that can get stuck in fantasy if we’re not careful. I’m talking about the kind of wonder that worries less about the whats and is more inclined to explore the what-ifs. And not just mentally explore. Physically explore. As a creator, you must lean into this. I learned this lesson on a bumpy road when I was first trying to become a professional speaker.

To be a top keynoter requires subject expertise, a physical presence, speaking skills, and the nerve to get up and talk in front of hundreds if not thousands of people. There was no reason to think that was a world in which I might excel. I’d never given a single talk. I’m also naturally shy—a classic introvert. Being around large groups of people was intimidating and draining. Then there was another fact. I was an absolute beginner at painting. There was no reason to think I’d be able to paint well on stage for a crowd, let alone fast. I hadn’t even done it by myself, at my own house, over hours and hours.

The first person I confided in did his best to talk me out of it. He was a very well-known and successful corporate speaker who spoke sixty to seventy times a year and was in constant demand. He’d sacrificed his health for his craft, he admitted to me. He was basically exhausted. “Now you think it’s sexy and glamorous,” he told me. “But it’s lonely, hard work. It’s grueling. What can I do to convince you not to do this?”

There was nothing he could say to dampen my enthusiasm. His warnings didn’t faze me. When he finally realized that I was all in no matter what he said, he shrugged his shoulders and I believe saw a little bit of himself as an amateur in me. He began to share a few nuggets of wisdom that helped me shape my concept.

“Speaking is five percent what you say,” he explained, “and ninety-five percent how you say it. No one is going to remember anything about your presentation except the first ninety seconds and the last ninety seconds. Make them so spectacular, the ending so phenomenal, that the audience erupts.”

He recommended not going to any speaking classes. Go and study U2, the Rolling Stones, Bruce Springsteen, live theater, and improv comedy, he advised. Go and learn how they actively engage an audience and then build a presentation and place actionable content in and around this experience.

The advice struck me as brilliant, and I took it to heart, but with a twist. I wanted to figure out how to extend ninety spectacular seconds to three minutes that built into a firecracker twelve-minute opening. Most speakers I’d seen opened with jokes or alarming facts to grab attention. What if I didn’t say anything? What if, instead, I cranked up rock music and created a painting in ninety seconds flat?

There was a big problem with this idea. It was just an idea. I was, by every account imaginable, a fool. I couldn’t paint anyone in an hour, let alone ninety seconds. But I knew instinctively that would be my innovation, my fire, something that had never been attempted on the professional speakers circuit. Looking back, the amazing thing was that I just threw myself into it. But I can see that the spark had been lit. Once I kept moving I was just fanning the flame. The more I moved, the more I progressed, the more that flame grew. And the more I learned.

I wasn’t a painter, certainly had no keynote speaking skills, and I had no viable way of getting hired. I did know one critical thing from my knowledge of building a business. I needed to learn as much as I could as immediately as possible.

My first major step was to start rehearsing my talk. Nearly every day, I’d set my alarm for 4:00 A.M. and walk around my neighborhood like a nutcase, projecting my voice as if I were speaking in front of a large audience, waving my hands dramatically as I ran through ideas and stories that I had to connect into a coherent theme. I had to develop a fluency and cadence, and polish my story so well that I could do it backward and forward. The discipline of waking before anyone else was willing to wake felt inspiring.

To simulate the authentic feel of performing in front of thousands of people, I went to a local pastor and asked if I could borrow his stage from five to six in the morning three days during the workweek. Somewhat miraculously he gave me the keys to the sanctuary as long as I was cleared out by 6:00 A.M. The church seated four hundred people, which was an ideal setup. I needed to have this feeling of speaking to a crowd, and now three times a week I had my own stage and could speak to the hundreds of people I visualized. That was inspiring, arriving before dawn and running through my rough presentation. It got the fire growing bigger still.

When you’re starting something totally new, you’re taking a leap of faith. You have to believe, and you have to make other people believe, even when you’re nowhere near ready. That’s how I came up with the concept of my next step.

There’s a Catch-22 in the keynote business. You can’t get a good keynote without a history of keynotes. If you haven’t done a keynote—ever—you have to find a way to create one. So I did what every early-stage entrepreneur does. I faked it.

Point Loma University had a free speakers’ series. Perfect. I applied, got a spot, created a flier that made it sound like I had experience (which I did, just not in speaking), and then put them up all over the campus. Tasha and I asked all our friends to come in business attire so that we could guarantee a professional-looking audience. We hired three cameramen, and when the evening came we had a full crowd, including the pastor of the church where I’d been doing my predawn rehearsals.

How did it go?

It was an hour of sucking. I flailed like a fool and painted garbage. My ideas were disconnected and out of sync with the crowd. I was worried. But I was not deterred. What I lacked in talent, I made up for in passion. I was curious enough to keep trying and I was foolish enough not to quit. I wanted this to happen. I didn’t quite have the rhythm down, but I was betting my family’s diminishing financial security on the belief that if I kept at it, the know-how and the wow would come.

The bright future of anything—career, company, industry, relationship—relies on those who are willing to keep creating whether or not they’ve done it before, despite a lack of knowledge or resources. Stupidity and feelings of insufficiency can be fuel for innovation—often the most natural fuel you possess—if you let them be. Great creators don’t spend as much time trying to discover their way to creativity as they do creating their way to discovery.

Like a child learning to draw, just draw. Stick figures if that’s all you got. Don’t try to be inspired. Don’t trace or connect dots. Just create something. And then do it again. If you do it consistently enough, inspiration and discovery are guaranteed to occur. Get yourself used to acting forward, not merely thinking forward. And don’t mind acting the fool. If you’re going to stay on the creative edge, you regularly have to move before you’re ready. Your friends and family will get used to it. Maybe they’ll even be inspired.

“When someone has the insight to see clearly into the future,” writes Peter Sims in Little Bets, “as Bill Gates did about the emerging computer industry . . . pursuing that brilliant vision with unwavering determination can produce remarkable results. However, when uncertainty replaces certainty or when we lack insight, experience, or expertise about problems, experimental innovation is a far better approach. . . . Most successful entrepreneurs, especially those who start businesses with limited capital, operate in this experimental way when trying new ideas. They think of learning the way most people think of failure.”

Sims references the work of Saras Sarasvathy, a professor at the Darden Graduate School of Business at the University of Virginia. Sarasvathy studies what separates creative entrepreneurs from those who are more traditional. She looks primarily at how they make decisions and uses as an illustration of the difference the two different ways chefs cook a meal.

The first way, she says, “is for a chef to begin with a specific menu, pick out recipes, shop for the ingredients, and then cook the meal in their own, well-equipped kitchen.” It’s planned and procedural and therefore usually efficient.

However, says Sarasvathy, there’s another way to prepare the meal. The chef simply steps into the kitchen without a menu or knowledge of all the available ingredients. The chef must rummage through the pantry and fridge to determine what’s there and then begin piecing the meal together. “The result,” explains the author, “might be great or it may not. The only certainty is that the outcome of the second approach will be less predictable than that of the first approach.”

In other words, the way the second chef cooks the meal expands the spectrum of possibilities. This is what happens to your creative potential when you embrace the way of an amateur. Do it on a regular basis and your creative horizon keeps expanding.

Consider how Howard Schultz launched Starbucks. He intended to model the wonderful cafés he’d experienced in Italy, down to the menu items called by their Italian names. What he discovered was that American baristas found the bow ties awkward and customers complained about not comprehending the menu. So he took those shots in the face and morphed the experience.

Another famous company, Hewlett-Packard, began without its founders even having a firm vision of what they would produce. Talk about foolish. They came together and launched the venture because they wanted to work together. The how eventually came.

If there is a litmus test for engaging in foolish activity, it’s fear. If you are truly acting on a spark that requires you to play the amateur, you will always fear something along the continuum from mild disappointment to complete disaster. However, the overlooked aspect of this sort of activity is that it is rarely a chore. Amateur spontaneity will stretch you, yes. But it is because you are stretched that this activity can be one of the most exhilarating and fulfilling things you do.

You have to act through the fear.

Ever jump off a cliff into a body of water? Even if you’ve done it numerous times, there is an element of fear that never leaves. But oh, the exhilaration you feel once you’ve done it far outweighs the fear beforehand. There is a reason the term “adrenaline junkie” exists. The feeling on the back side of these activities is addictive. In fact, being creatively foolish exposes you to a degree of delight you might not have experienced since the wonder years of your childhood, when all bets were off every day because no script had yet been written.

We are delighted by the sparks that rise from this sort of foolishness. We are drawn to their mystery. These sparks are fueled by our own natural curiosity.

Your logic tells you that your days are easiest when you know what to expect. There’s truth in that. But your spirit reminds you that your days are only inspiring when you learn and stretch and grow. There’s transcendence in the fascination of our own curiosity.

A long time ago I was reminded that the opposite of fear is not courage—it’s faith. When faced with the many creative possibilities before you, your choice is to either move forward in faith, even foolish faith, or move backward in fear. And to do nothing is always moving backward. We long for growth and forward movement. Growth and comfort cannot coexist.

There is always fear in playing the fool. You are never fit for what you don’t yet know and can’t yet do. That’s why great creators don’t attempt to think their way into acting spontaneously. They just act spontaneously.

Sometimes the meal you prepare is garbage. Sometimes it’s heavenly. But you’ll rarely have a shot at heavenly with a recipe in front of you.

There is a tendency to see creative foolishness as frivolous or even careless behavior. “You can’t just drop everything,” the logic goes, “and go on a wild-goose chase.” This is a flawed view; it assumes that you are happy with your current “everything.”

If you are, stay where you are and hold on to everything. Entertain nothing new. Learn no new thing. Spark no hidden potential.

If your everything isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be, let it go now and then to see what else you can learn and find.

In a piece for Tech Insider, science reporter Kelly Dickerson looks into the claim that astronaut Mark Watney (played by Matt Damon) makes in the film The Martian that NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory was founded after some Caltech students lit their dorm on fire with a rocket test gone wrong. Turns out, according to NASA’s history archive, it’s true. And it’s a great illustration of what a few creative fools can accomplish.

In the mid-1930s, three graduate students—aerodynamics student Frank Malina, self-taught chemist Jack Parsons, and mechanic Ed Forman—set fire to their dorm room while testing a fueled rocket. Caltech promptly booted them off the campus. But they were fools in love. They kept testing.

They moved their operation into California’s San Gabriel Mountains, calling themselves the “Suicide Club.” Their first series of tests nearly affirmed the name as they lit the oxygen feed line on fire and it exploded around them, though fortunately no one was hurt. They kept at the seemingly foolish work and were eventually admitted back to Caltech, to which they responded by running more tests and being booted once and for all.

Over time, they became very proficient at building working models of rockets—without their exploding. But they were a fledgling operation until 1944, when their work was discovered and quickly sponsored by the U.S. Army “to develop rocket technology and the Corporal and Sergeant missile systems” in response to German V-2 rockets. The Suicide Club moved into an official lab in the foothills of Pasadena and united their team of experimenters under the name Jet Propulsion Laboratory, now known as simply JPL. This was fourteen years before the formation of NASA.

To date, JPL has been involved in over 125 NASA missions.

We can theorize all day long about theology, politics, creativity, and social change. But the rubber meets the road in practice, in actual encounter with real life. Too often our lives are small and circumscribed, structured to protect us from anything unfamiliar or unknown. We fight not to appear foolish. Stop fighting that fight. Let go of your self-consciousness and fear of humiliation. There are far greater things to lose than a little ego now and then.

While genius might reside in a spark, impact comes from grind. And sometimes you need to grind like a fool. Take consistent action whether you think it’s leading you somewhere or not. In fact, sometimes it’s better not to know where the path is heading. Plans rarely last long in their original form when you’re constantly creating. As Mike Tyson says, “Everyone has a plan, until they get punched in the mouth.”

You’ll get punched in the face a lot when you’re an amateur. Which is why there’s an important next step to taking action in an ill-informed, ill-prepared state. You don’t just do and do and do. You must act on what you learn from your doing. Don’t just get up and get punched in the same place again. You do to learn and then you apply it to grow your creative arsenal and output.

Sometimes, as in the case of Steve Jobs’s calligraphy class, you don’t immediately know what the point of the doing is. You did something because it interested you but there was no immediate application to your life. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean it was a waste. And there’s no need to force the lesson or contrive one. Your mind will clarify the ties for you the more new experiences you take on. As you grow older, you will find that none of these experiences has been a waste.

The majority of your amateur experiences, your foolish experiments, will teach you something right away and illuminate an immediate application to a current venture. This application must be captured. You must become proficient at refining your creativity through reaction.

While I spend time in my studio practicing my performance of every painting and while I continue to study art history and technique, I don’t aim to trace the academic rules of great art with my finished work. I am not creating a product to be hung in a museum and praised by curators and art critics for decades to come. I am creating a product to evoke feelings that will compel you to take bolder, more innovative, more authentic actions today. I don’t need three months or three years to create something that makes that sort of impact. I need three minutes. You may need even less time.

The standards of creativity in the real world are not the same as they are at the Louvre or at Sotheby’s. To be more innovative, to be a greater creative asset in every role you play, you do not need ideas that will be lauded by economists and MBA students for the next century. You need a place to start. One idea is all it takes.

Constant creators work with a continuous sense of urgency to raise the bar in every facet of their lives. They resist hitting the cruise control when something is working. And they rarely rely on existing road maps to direct future paths because they know the best road map is an ever-increasing awareness.

If you can begin to see creativity through this lens—accelerated output, immediate impact—you will begin to see why acting the fool matters. The simplest definition of great art is that it engages and inspires. Waiting for the right idea to act is a cop-out. You don’t need the perfect idea. You just need a decent one and a penchant for constant progress. You’re only fooling yourself if you think patience is the path to more creativity.

You don’t need brilliance to make creative progress. You just need enough foolish drive to move forward when you are neither qualified nor equipped. Opportunities come quicker and steadier when you forget your ego and just go.

Certain writers throughout history believed you could only create one great book in your lifetime. Certain painters throughout history believed a similar thing about paintings. On one hand, I understand this view. If I were going to create my life masterpiece—the one product that would embody my best skills, spirit, and persona, and establish my legacy for all of time—I would take some time working on it. I wouldn’t stand on a stage and paint it in three minutes.

But on the other hand, I am not looking to create one single product and I don’t agree that it’s all we have to offer. Our lives are our greatest product. When the sparks are flying every day a lot can happen: a life of insane vibrancy and joy and impact. A lot you could have never dreamt up in your most lucid moments. So I look to create as many sparks as possible. I accelerate to scale my impact and increase the likelihood of a breakthrough idea. Instead of spending all my time mapping out my masterpiece, I paint for the trash can quite often.

This isn’t my way of bowing out of maximum effort. And it’s not my way of trying to preempt the rejection of buyers or critics who might say my art doesn’t stand up to museum standards. It is my way of creating a lab in which I am not limited by flawlessness or expectation. If what I paint is for the trash can, I am free to rapidly explore, dream, and discover without the traditional risk of failure.

Progress requires making strides. Where creativity is concerned, the shorter the stride, the greater the progress. And short strides are full of stumbles. Don’t buy into the notion that you can take a giant leap if you spend enough time strategizing. It’s as much a play to avoid looking stupid as it is trying to actually succeed. Besides, by the time you polish your smart plan, creative fools will have lapped you twice.

Opt instead to just go and make the sparks fly. Try something new every week—walk up to a stranger and strike up a conversation, take interest in his or her life. Learn something new every year—take on a new language or study a new subject. You will look foolish at times. But you will learn more in this posture than if you kept doing what you know. And along the way, you will learn to love learning. As you learn you will refine your skills, rekindle adventure, and ignite creativity more frequently than you knew you could.

Don’t fear the fool in you. Let him lead you into creative frontiers every day.