I can't draw to save my life, to be honest.
So I mostly write. But of course, like 99.9% of people in this world (the +/- being the absolute error on the calculation), I write so badly I should maybe consider giving up for the wellbeing of humanity.
However, one big inspiration, the light at the end of the tunnel for me, the father and mother of the little, rachitic creativity that I have, would be Fyodor Dostoevsky. He enters that 0.1% that is not a measurement error. What is fascinating with him is the absolute abandonment with which he writes. He gave up a comfortable life, he gave up a military engineering position that could have fed him and his offspring and laid it all at the altar of literature.
And literature had been such a cruel deity to him. But until his very last breath, he wrote. He wrote about humanity. He wrote about its ugliness. He wrote about its beauty. He wrote about your brain. He wrote about my brain.
You could follow his ups and downs through his books. You knew when he had found a sliver of hope to make him believe there still was a chance for humanity to rise above depravity. And then you would see him slowly sink back into despair.
Dostoevsky was to literature what prophets were to religions. And he gave us Nietzsche and Kafka (who copied him mercilessly - but worshipped him with just as much passion), so yeah.
