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.
Hidden chains need to be broken, so I’ve become a reluctant rebel
You always need enough money that you can quit when it’s time
The Alien Observer: Craving predictability in a world gone mad
Doing the right thing frequently requires breaking immoral laws
Meet Charlotte, one of the important women in my life
If you’re driven to create beauty, you’re an artist — like it or not
I don’t allow comments anymore, and I’d like to briefly explain why
We’re often oblivious to what matters in life until it’s too late
Anonymous attacker hit me hard, but I can’t let coward change me