This summer I was negotiating a deal for a film I was producing. The deal fell through. What a bummer.
This wasn’t my first run-in with failure. I’ve experienced countless creative disappointments over the last decade: book proposals that were turned down, tours that didn’t get booked, television shows that didn’t air, media appearances that never materialized, studio spaces that went to a higher bidder.
My self-indulgent twenties were seasoned with similar letdowns: promotions I didn’t earn, expensive homes I couldn’t afford, intimate relationships that petered out before they got started. And let’s not forget the hallmarks of a lotus eater: cars, clothes, furniture, watches, money, admiration. I wanted each so badly I could practically smell the satisfaction lingering around the corner of procurement.
I usually wanted more than I had, which is a terrific recipe for discontentment.
If you’re a human being with desires, I suspect you can relate. The more you want a thing, the more disappointed you are when you don’t obtain it.
But after decades of being battered by my own unfulfilled desires, I’ve discovered that disappointment travels with a curious companion: relief. There’s relief in not getting what you want because the decision has already been made for you.
When you decide to apply for a new job or drive to the mall for a new shirt, you experience a pang of relief—not because you acquired the object of your desire (you haven’t yet), but because you made a decision. At least that much is settled.
To decide is, etymologically, to cut off. A decision cuts off the deliberation, even if someone else does the cutting.
When that film deal fell through, my disappointment came with a gift: one fewer possibility to fret over. In one sense, I didn’t get what I wanted. But in a deeper sense, I did: I got to stop agonizing over it.
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