Larry Hall is a wonderfully curious man. He is a model of the Steve Jobs man: He thinks differently. He doesn’t hesitate to offer advice, even when it’s unsolicited. (He made his living as a business consultant.) I haven’t seen him in a couple of months and I miss our conversations.
It was Larry who first suggested that I create a Hospice Hit Squad. If there are evil people in the world who deserve to be killed, I could be the one to kill them. After all, what could the courts do to me? A death sentence? Life in prison? I’m already there. The only thing holding me back is the fact that I don’t believe in the death penalty. But maybe there are exceptions worth considering.
On a more serious note, Larry often encouraged me to separate my work life a little more from my passion projects. For a long time I’ve had a list of ideas that I’ve wanted to bring to life—a movie project, a new national holiday, a way to make philanthropy more productive, etc. I’ve always folded those projects into my work as president of The Martin Agency. I’ve wanted the projects to be profitable, inspiring and reputation-building for our creative company. Larry wondered if I’ve complicated the process of making these things actually happen by involving the company. He never convinced me of that—in fact, I always thought my job gave me the only credibility I might have in bringing new things into existence. But looking back at it now, Larry might well have been right. I’ve had an awful failure rate with new initiatives.
Those conversations led naturally to discussions about work and life. Not just about the balance of the two, but the relative importance of each. In the current issue of The New Yorker, James Wood explores the relationships between some famous authors and their children. Those children offer ample evidence, mostly in their own memoirs, that their fathers—Saul Bellow, John Cheever, Bernard Malamud, William Styron—were duds as dads. The novels were the accomplishments that mattered. In most of these cases, the wives were enablers—freeing the “great man” to do his life’s work until he eventually decides to leave the family altogether. (An interesting sidelight is that a number of these writers felt awkward about not being in more traditional jobs. After all, the business of America is business. Woods quotes Nathaniel Hawthorne from 1850: “What is he? A writer of story-books? What kind of a business in life. . .may that be?”)
Like so many others, I spent long hours at the office throughout my career. I always knew my family was more important in my life, but somehow the work always seemed more urgent. And yet I couldn’t present myself to my family as the victim of capitalistic, corporate and client demands; I loved my work. It was, frankly, more fun than most parental or spousal responsibilities. I felt more competent at work. Ginny wanted me at home, but she didn’t really need me there. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle. Besides I couldn’t figure out how to do my job in just 40 or 50 hours a week. No boss was telling me to work nights and weekends; I was driven by a strange cocktail of my own insecurity and my passion for the work. [Some years ago, a good friend ran into some serious marital problems when his wife demanded to know whether he loved her or his work more. He hesitated too long on the answer. (Note to Ginny and Jason: I wouldn’t have hesitated—I always loved you more.)]
I’m in this strange limbo now where importance and urgency have less meaning. I do some work—which I still love–but I spend many hours with Ginny playing games or watching TV or movies. There’s nothing I have to get done this week or this month or this lifetime. And I’m loving this time. The tumors inside me are working on some kind of clock that I can’t see. I don’t know what tomorrow brings. Ginny doesn’t want me to worry that by lingering on past my “discard” date I’m keeping her in my limbo with me, so I try not to. This is, after all, the time we wanted for ourselves 20 years ago, but couldn’t find.
I watch Jason and Carley struggle with so many of the same things Ginny and I struggled with. They’re in their 30s and they’ve got too much to do. Too much that’s important. Too much that’s urgent. They’re both working on things they love, but they won’t notice how much fun they’re actually having until they look back at it. (Fun usually isn’t something we have, it’s something we remember having.) Jason does a better job of staying deeply involved in Ella’s life than I did with him. That makes me happy. He has the added burden of being competent around the house, so more is expected of him—by Carley and by himself. I remember the years in my 30s and 40s as a blur. I also remember them as being full of life and joy—with only occasional interruptions for traumatic marital squabbles, work problems and parental challenges.
I need a talk with Larry to find out if I’m thinking about this stuff correctly. We’re scheduled for next month. Which is fine.
I hope.
