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Buddha said desire is the root of all suffering. He must have been a pretty smart guy, considering he's got a religion and all. But sometimes it seems I've chosen to desire professionally. And I'm not sure the suffering is worth it anymore.
I want to be a writer. I want to make it big. I want to break into my chosen career.
See, in a creative field, "wanting" is the number one skill you can develop. It doesn't matter what — your big break, the next role, to create the most Earth-shattering piece of art to come out of the 21st century. It's all just some bullshit designed to make you hate yourself. It's all a wish, a hope, a desire. Yet, we choose this heartache every day.
I guess you could also say art is suffering. But maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of fucking suffering all of the time.
If you're a creative, do me a favor and picture yourself in 20 years. Are you happy? Did you get that big job in the city like you wanted? Maybe so. And maybe you'd even consider yourself happy. But in reality, all you've taught yourself to do is 'want.' One would think they’d be happy once they achieved their goal, but the trick of it all is that the goal keeps changing.
Take me, for example. I guess I thought I wanted to be a comedy writer — I'd break out onto the scene on "Saturday Night Live," make my own TV show, perform stand-up for thousands, blah blah blah. But even if one day I did have all of that, I'm sure I'd want something else — because all I’ve taught myself to do my whole life is just that.
I guess, in a way, I'm suffering as I write this. My back hurts, my brain hurts, my heart hurts. Yet I sit here, with some twisted need to put this all on the page. Some hunger resides deep within me, a sort of hunger that can never be satisfied, no matter what I do.
Maybe this is all some mopey artist's manifesto. Or maybe it's a cry for help. But I'm finally seeing what's in front of me — a life where I don't know if I'll ever truly be happy.
My dear friend often hears me lamenting about this, over some writing job I don't want to do, whether it be school or work or even this. He tells me the truth in a way I can hear, as he always does, and says that I've turned what I love into work. Usually, I laugh this off and say that while this may be true, if you love what you do, you'll never work a day in your life — as the old adage goes.
But lately, when he tells me this, I really hear it. Everything I love to do is work now. And what do you do if turning what you love into work just makes you hate it?
I guess you quit.
Yet here I am, writing this, unable to fathom such a thing. I'm nothing without my body of work, at least in my head. Who am I, and what kind of life do I live if every thought isn’t meticulously crafted into some think piece in a magazine?
I started writing when I was 14 years old. At least, seriously writing. I wrote poems, short stories, articles and journals, all out of the fear that if it didn't exist on paper, I didn't truly exist either. Sometimes it feels like writing is in my blood; like I inhale ideas and exhale words. And other times I feel like a talentless hack, waiting to be caught masquerading as someone important.
There's some invisible force that calls me back to my computer screen, a string that tethers me to this idea of being a writer. At the end of the day, I fear it's what I want most in this world. But wanting is the problem, isn’t it?
I'd like to believe I could be happy no matter where I end up in this life. For all I know, I could be happiest as a stay-at-home mom. Or a member of a cult. Or even one of those guys peddling fruit cups on the side of the street. Yet, I write. I write and I write until my fingers cramp up and a migraine begins. I just can’t help myself. I 'want' as if it’s the only thing I know how to do. And I’m beginning to think it is.
I often question this behavior, challenge it even. But if everyone I know also 'wants' all of the time, how am I supposed to see another way?
There's nothing more embarrassing than realizing you share a dream with someone. And even worse to realize you share it with almost everyone. The other day, my professor asked a lecture hall full of students if they wanted to be writers, and nearly ¾ of the class raised their hands. How is there supposed to be room for all of us? The answer is: there isn't.
So what makes me so special? Am I destined for this? Or have I 'wanted' for so long and so hard that I've merely convinced myself that this is fate. In order to survive, I suppose I must believe the former.
At the end of the day, I want to be wanted. So does everyone else, though. Even if you’re not the creative type. We are all intrinsically tied together in this way, this desire to feel desired. It could be as simple as a relationship, a promotion, the love of those around us. But somehow, I expect to be paid for such an endeavor. However fruitless it may be.
Truthfully, I don't know if I'll ever be happy. Living this way, I mean. The constant need to be accepted, to be praised, to be wanted. But I don't know another way. And part of me can't stand the fact that I'll be forced to deal with this idea someday. Everybody fails, it's a part of life. But when failure is entangled so closely with identity, it hurts a million times more.
When I fail as a writer, I question everything I've ever done. Everything I'll ever be. It stops me dead in my tracks and forces me to question the biggest decisions I've made in this life. It's humiliating. Because when I don’t feel wanted, I feel there is no reason to 'want' — and that is all I know.
So, I persist. I pursue some made-up dream and hope that I'm getting somewhere. That all this wanting can one day end up with me being wanted. So it goes.
Edited by Savannah Dagupion, Leah Mesquita and Audrey Eagerton.
Reach the reporter at cageare@asu.edu and follow @notevilclaire on X.
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