A start-up, as everyone in the New Economy knows, is chaotic, relentless and exhilarating–often in the sheer impossibility of trying to keep up. There are few rules for coping, but among those I’ve learned: (1) The job you were hired to do is not the one you end up with, or at least not the only one. I was hired to be an editor; right now I’m also a fact checker, copy reader and data-entry specialist. (In low moments I like to count the number of people who performed my tasks at my old company. Last count: 16.) (2) Since nothing like your Web site’s mega-idea has been done before, there are few procedures for anything. If you’re lucky it won’t matter, since your company will double every few months and whatever procedures there might have been will become obsolete. (3) The work is never done. Unlike in the print media I left behind, the editorial content–which never physically goes to press–can be updated endlessly, which erases the concept not only of a deadline but of a conclusion.
I’m not the only one who works hard. More than a few inmates on my commuter train are tapping away at laptops; the lawyers among us can be identified by their twin leather briefcases so overstuffed with files they creak (the briefcases, not the lawyers). And we all know that technology has reshaped the concept of the “workplace.” Last year the Ackerman Family Institute began offering therapy for couples shipwrecked by technology: by online adultery, by arguments over new hardware purchases, but most of all, by the intrusions of beepers, faxes and cell phones.
These modern wonders may be liberating in some ways, but they tether one to work. My home computer brings into the house not just my e-mail but the workplace itself. I log off at work, come home to put the kids to bed, only to find the Net has followed me home. Given the amount of work that’s gone undone, the temptation is too strong. As soon as my wife turns her back, I punch my power button, and before I know it I hear my modem piping me aboard.
I recently took a 10-day vacation–and spent more than 30 hours online, chatting in real time with folks in the office as if they were in the next cubicle. That vacation experience made me begin to look for ways to cordon off my home from my work. Two ideas:
Turn off the machines. You should also agree with your spouse (or companion) on a certain hour after which all work stops, or at least takes a hiatus. Colleagues should be told that no e-mail or voice mail will be answered after that time. On the other hand, don’t kid yourself or others: if there is work to be done that can’t be done at another time, let your partner know as soon as you do.
Make reservations. Set up “dates” with your loved one and keep them, possibly by arranging for a babysitter who gets paid to show up whether you go out or not. If you’re single, buy expensive tickets to the opera or book a table at a fancy restaurant. Raise the costs of blowing off real life. Otherwise you’ll find yourself losing all perspective.
That happened to me the other night. I told my wife that I was going to a bar with a couple of old friends. As the hour grew near, I had a thought that flipped the old sitcom plot on its head: “Instead of going out with the boys,” I thought, “I’ll tell the wife I went out. But really I’ll stay at the office working late.” The thought of how far I’d fallen sent shivers down my spine. I snapped off the computer and hit the bar.
CORRECTIONIn the May 15 edition of ENTERPRISE, our story “Dot-Coms Invade the Dormitory” (page 73A) referred to Ivyventures.com. The company’s correct name is Ivy Venture and its Web site is Ivyventure.com.
