Writing Boots

It’s generally understood that onetime country music kingpin Porter Wagoner was what my North Carolina native friend Sara Price would call a “jackwagon.” Well, he wrote a real jackwagon farewell song to a woman, and it goes a little something like this:

Meanwhile, Dolly Parton, who is pretty much the antithesis of a jackwagon as far as many of us are concerned, wrote a very different type of farewell ditty—which was about leaving The Porter Wagoner Show, where she’d gotten her start. And which she performed on said show, all class and not a touch of resentment for the reason she was leaving: Wagoner’s insistence on maintaining control of her career.

To which Wagoner replied, “That’s the prettiest song I ever heard. And you can go, providing I get to produce that record.”

This week I’ve been shooting into the fish-stocked barrel that is LinkedIn. There, I’ve found old fools seeking wisdom in young fools. And fools of all ages seeking inspiration in over-caffeinated entrepreneurs who have written more books than they’ve read.

Okay, Mister Smartie, where do you find daily wisdom and inspiration for living?

In obituaries.

No matter what else is happening in my life, I read every obituary in The New York Times.

No, that’s not true.

I glance at every one.

I only read about half of them.

What makes me read one obit and not another?

I don’t like reading about scientists or mathematicians, because I’m afraid that the life of a physicist might not help me think better about my life as a writer (though I may be wrong about that). I don’t like reading about “watchdogs,” founders of charities, celebrated social-justice pioneers or other goody two-shoes who I’m supposed to admire. And I don’t usually read about actors, because I never know whether the story is true.

Whose obits do I read?

Writers and editors of all kinds. Sometimes, there’s something to share with my writer buddies. And there’s almost always a great quote at the end.

Photojournalists, because the article always shows some of the best work, and the best work of a notable photojournalist is usually pretty awesome.

Musicians, and other people with exciting and glamorous lives that always seem to lead to drug addiction and alcoholism.

People who made a big difference just by pissing in one spot.

Those who died very young, or very old.

Tortured people who killed themselves, and tortured people who did not.

CEOs of giant companies in the 1980s, who towered over hundreds of thousands of people, but what did it all really amount to in the end?

People who chucked their corporate jobs and made it big. (Always keeping in mind that the Times doesn’t write obits about people who chucked their corporate jobs and died broke.)

People who were the only person in the world who did their job. (Like “global speechwriter wrangler,” for instance.)

Born losers.

Old jocks, and other people who were once famous but became obscure. (How did they handle that?)

Stories of people who were long obscure but became famous late in life. (How did they handle that?)

People who did one notable thing, and were defined by it forever after. (How did they handle that?)

Women in the 1950s who did impossible things like running advertising agencies or becoming The Motorcycle Queen of Miami.

Obituaries remind me not just of how short life is, but how long!

They concretely counteract my claims of “I can’t,” with proof that others did!

They tell me what kinds of earthly contributions get remembered—for ill, and for good.

They affirm that finding meaningful work is one of the best and luckiest things that can happen in any life—and that such work is worth sticking with even when it’s sometimes a drag. (One doesn’t read much in the obits about scratch golfers or karate black belts, who actually might on their deathbed, as they assess their lasting legacy on the planet, wish they’d spent more time at work.)

They remind me that though, yes, lots of marriages “end in divorce” and lots of people’s children “precede them in death,” most people do leave survivors, and sometimes even get to die at home, surrounded by them.

They prove and reprove how unpredictable life is, how incredibly much people can take and still go on living and how weird and wonderful and free it is possible to be—especially when you have useful and agreeable work to do, and other people to do it with.

And most importantly they say, every day: Buster, you’re not here forever. Is what you’re doing today what you ought to be doing tomorrow?

LinkedIn for networking.

Obituaries for career counsel!

There are four sane responses, it seems to me, to the below video by Gary Vaynerchuk, who is described by himself as “one of the leading global minds on what’s next in culture, relevance and the internet,” and who has 4,952,952 followers on LinkedIn.

1. Outrage, at the self-involved imbecility of this guy, and anyone in your own life who he even vaguely reminds you of.
2. Gratitude, that you don’t work for him (or, one hopes, anyone like him).
3. Filthy joy, at watching it over and over again until you stop laughing and begin to solemnly revere the purity of this inanity.

4. Or despair, for the sorts of people who watch this stuff and think it is deep. People like one of the many commenters on this video:

“It is so amazing and refreshing to hear someone at a really high level of success talk about kindness in the face of winning. The reality of life is, there is plenty of pie for everyone. If you brutally take everyone off the court, you’re running around by yourself doing lay ups. We need other people to play the game. We need competitors to push against. We can all win BIG, and still be really good humans.”

That paragraph casts doubt on the integrity of the alphabet, for participating in its unholy construction.

“Lean into that purple,” Vaynerchuk advises.

Lean away from LinkedIn philosophers, Murray replies.