David McElroy

I found myself feeling resentful earlier this week about the amount of time I was “wasting” at work one day. I had something more important which I was eager to do. I don’t work nearly as many hours now as I used to, but I felt impatient with work this week anyway.

As I grumbled inwardly, I started thinking about how much I’d worked in the past at other pursuits.

When I owned a couple of small start-up newspapers, I routinely worked between 100 and 110 hours a week. I was exhausted all the time, but I didn’t mind the effort. I loved what I was doing. I was passionate about it.

When I was a political consultant, there were weeks when I worked 80 or 90 hours, especially as an election approached. Other times during a year, I might work only a few hours a week. It varied. I was happy with that, too. I controlled my time — and I loved what I was doing.

What dominates my time now? Writing, photography, thinking — all about things which matter to me. My income tells you nothing about what I care about, but my use of time tells you everything. I’ve realized very clearly this week that my use of time — and where I put my attention — have always been a proxy for what I loved and what I was passionate about.

That’s true for you, too. And for everyone else.

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“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”
— Edgar Allan Poe, in a letter to George W. Eveleth

I had just spent most of a year wanting to be rid of a woman I had been dating for three years. I broke up with her one time but I felt so guilty that I changed my mind a few days later. I wanted her to decide I was right — that we had no future. After months of this waffling from me, the day finally came.

She was giving up on me and moving on. Suddenly, I felt hurt and stricken. I had made a terrible mistake. I wanted her back.

I was in my first year of working full-time after college. My work suddenly suffered. There was one day when I didn’t show up for work until halfway through the day. I was a basket case.

A co-worker had the perfect solution for me, though. She said I needed to pretend to be seriously ill, enough to get put into a hospital. I don’t recall the details, but she had a very serious plan. She was sure this would bring my ex running back in fear that I was dying.

Although I didn’t seriously consider her plan, this has always stood out to me as the height of love’s insanity. People in love can be desperate. They can do insane things.

But I’ve had crazy thought. What if these periods of love-driven insanity are the very best parts of life? What if it’s the period of “horrible sanity” that make life unbearable? Without the unbearable insanity of love, does life have any meaning?

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