As a young writer, I spent a great deal of time by myself, as most writers do. My high school provided exactly zero (0) classes in Creative Writing. If there were other aspiring writers in my vicinity, we shared a common anonymity.

Music was where I first met mentors and coaches. In a strange twist, two of the most significant voices were named Bill. Or William, in the case of my aged piano teacher. He was the one who instilled a passion for playing, although getting through my junior-high attitude was probably his hardest task.

“You’re very good at sight-reading, but you haven’t practiced,” William said, peering at me through his coke-bottle glasses. “You have been given a gift. Do you find no joy in playing music?”

That marked a new season for me. I began to play because I loved it. I began to dream of performing something more exciting than piano recitals. William lit a fire that has yet to go out.

I met Dr. Bill in college. He was the artsy-mad-conductor type with an amazing creative streak. He recruited me—a coffeehouse guitarist and bar-band bass player—and put me to work in the pit band of one of his productions. Our most memorable conversation—one of many which vaulted him into mentor-land in my mind—went something like this:

Dr. Bill (cradles an unfamiliar stringed instrument in his hands): “This is a dulcimer. I need you to play it on two Israeli folk songs.”

Me (shrugs apologetically): “Sorry, I don’t play the dulcimer.”

Dr. Bill (raises one eyebrow as he pushes the dulcimer into my hands): “I need you to play dulcimer on these songs.”

Me (attempts to return the dulcimer): “Read my lips. I don’t know how to play the dulcimer.”

Dr. Bill (locks his most intense mad-conductor eyes with mine): “Read MY lips. You’re a musician. Technically, you can play whatever you put your mind to. Stop defining yourself by what you already know.”

Me: (adds dulcimer to the list of instruments I play in the pit band that year).

Both lessons from my influential Bills translate with ease to creative writing:

1. Writing flows best when you’re passionate about it.
2. Creativity is unleashed when you refuse to limit yourself by what you already know, and throw yourself off the adrenaline cliff of “what if?”

Today, I don’t have a pair of Bills to coach, mentor and challenge me. Instead, I have an entire community of creatives who love to write, and they provide both critique and encouragement. And this is key:

Authors, get your heads outta your patookus and become part of the greater writing community. It doesn’t matter if you’re the only writer representing your chosen genre. You need to be around other writers. Period.

Since joining a local writers’ group, I’m in contact with a growing community of authors, representing a wide and diverse range of genres and age demographics. We create, we critique, we brainstorm, we laugh, and we enjoy hanging out over coffee and various alcoholic libations. And by attending writing conferences, I’ve also met people like Barb and Ann, who gifted me with a merciless-yet-encouraging critique of Darkwood.

I don’t have any “Bills” in my writing community, but honorable mentions should go to a couple of guys whose first names begin with “J.” Jonas Saul has been—and continues to be—a well-spring of insight and encouragement ever since the first time he blue-penciled something I’d written.

John Mavin is a brilliant teacher on all things story-telling. I’ve learned a great deal from his workshops. But an unexpected surprise was when he spotted me at a writing conference and left his podium to greet me by name. That meant a lot.

Writers, get outta your creative garrets, and make connections. We all need Bills, Barbs, Anns, Johns, and a Jonas or three.

And remember—your words can change the course of someone’s journey. Spoken words, as well as written.

Choose wisely.