For much of my life, I’ve been stymied by the question of what I was. I could tell people how I made my living, but I wasn’t sure how to define myself. I went through a serious identity crisis when I was 29 years old.
I had been operating a publishing company for about three years, but the company failed and I had to shut it down. It was the first major failure of my life, and it threw me into a tailspin. Up until that time, I had defined myself as a businessman and as a newspaper editor, but everything felt hollow at that point. I realized that I had a serious question: “What am I?”
I spent the next year in a general state of depression and despair. I’m not sure how I made it through that period. Nothing seemed to matter. And every day, the question from the face in the mirror mocked me: “Who are you, David?”
After considering and discarding a million ways of defining myself, I finally found an answer to my existential crisis, but that answer scared me even more than the nothingness of the depression had. It felt true, but I somehow felt like a fraud to say it. I was an artist.
Without things to look forward to, the human heart gets ready to die
As I faced my father’s narcissism, I had to confront who I’d become
When it comes to ideas, should we prefer complexity or simplicity?
To fall in love is to play with fire, but our deep need justifies risks
A question I’m scared to answer: Why haven’t I made another film?
Why did I really feel annoyed? They were happy; I was jealous
No one will really notice except me, but a good friend of mine is dying
For pure ignorance, it’s hard to beat Occupy Wall Street protest signs