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.
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Check out Aya Katz’s interview with me about art and culture
Libertarian freedom vs. conservative tradition leads to culture clash
What if we’re more talented than our inner fears allow us to admit?
As you grow, learn to let go of things that no longer serve you
Florida requires drivers to hand over personal info — which it then sells
Movie popcorn overpriced? Sue ’em; spoiled children want their way
Spoiled brat sues White Castle because he can’t fit into a booth