As I write this, I’m reading a wonderful book. It’s called A Three Dog Life. The author’s name is Abigail Thomas. It’s a memoir. I don’t usually read memoirs. Other people’s lives don’t interest me that much, I suppose. Does that sound selfish and terrible? I suppose it might.

I’d like to say the reason is that I’m too busy living my own life. Raising a family. Worrying about the war in Ukraine. Worrying about what AI has in mind for us. I’d like to say that, but I’d be lying.

So, why am I reading this little story of a woman whose husband went out to walk the dog one night, got hit by a car, broke his skull open and changed both of their lives forever?

Whatever the reason, I’m reading it. Though I am only on page 30, I know my $13 was well spent. And this passage explains why:

“Twenty years ago, I asked a friend if he felt, as I did, a kind of chronic longing, a longing I wanted to identify. ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What is it we are longing for?’ He thought a minute and said, ‘There isn’t any it. There’s just the longing for it.’”

We are terrible longers, we creative people. No matter what we’re working on, we’re always looking forward to the next story. The next painting. The next poem. The next song. The next it.

We think, ‘If only I could squeeze my eyes shut and a wormhole would pass over me at that very moment, I would be awash in the glorious radiance of anywhere but where I am. Life would be good. Life would be perfect.’

I have a friend. Great art director. Sensitive. Strategic. Brilliant in every sense. His career has been one that any of us would envy. But as talented as he is, no matter the number of Emmys or Lions or Pencils that lie in a cardboard box in his garage, he has never been what you would call a settled soul. Far from it.

I have another friend. There are three people in advertising who write as well as she. If Apple had included her with Amelia Earhart, Einstein and Picasso in its “Think Different” campaign, I would not have so much as batted an eyelash. She has meant that much to the craft.

Unlike my other friend, she chose a different path. Not that the creative gravity of advertising’s super shops didn’t touch her—it did. She could have let it pull her away to what I am sure would have been a charmed climb to the top of the ladder, where all manner of corporate goodies would have awaited her.

But a long time ago, she decided to let other gravitational forces shape her life. Friends. Family. A dog. A mountain. A rock at the beach that looks like a goat. A path in the woods. A cozy house. These things do not exist on the circus train.

It’s good to aspire. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do great work. To walk up on a stage at an awards show. To have people applauding you. To make more money. There is nothing wrong with wanting to work with clients who get it, who somehow are on the frequency, who have courage.

But here’s what I also know.

My father once worked in a factory that stunk of oil and grease and steel shavings. A hard life, but he was happy. By contrast, I am not on my feet all day. I work in a comfortable office with an ergonomic chair and air conditioning and an oriental rug. I don’t punch a clock or eat tuna sandwiches out of a lunch pail or go home at night with metal shavings in my hair. I’ve had it easy. I have nothing to complain about.

So by all means, long for greatness. Long for terrific clients. Long to one day see your work at the Museum of Modern Art. Long to hear your concerto at the Lincoln Center. Long for your peers to know your name. Long for these things with all your heart and soul. And, if one day the stars align and the seas part and all of those things should in fact happen for you, do not be surprised if the longing is still there, still nibbling in your brain.

Because in the end, the longing for it is all there is. ca