When I left my analyst’s office for the last time, way back in 1963, he told me one thing to keep me going. I was heading back to New York City, where I’d been born, after six years in California, learning my craft of film-making.
“Keep doing creative things,” he said.
I took that statement for granted. How else would I ply my trade if I didn’t do “creative things?”
But the good doctor meant something much deeper. He meant that my particular depression could be kept at bay if I...
