One evening, a week or so after my epiphany in New Jersey, Burt Manning invited me to dinner at 21 Club, one of his favorite eating spots in New York. It was always a treat for me to break bread with Burt. He’s an interesting guy—a talented conversationalist and a good listener. That’s a rare combination. He’s also a winner. He literally saved Thompson. Burt wanted to talk about my future, and he told me I could be as big as I wanted to be in the ad world.
At this point, around 1996, I’d written four bestselling novels featuring Alex Cross. I’d also had that epiphany on the Jersey Turnpike. So I told Burt I didn’t have a future in advertising. I don’t actually remember this, but Burt later told me I said, “Burt, I can’t afford to work at Thompson anymore.”
I guess the kid from the country had finally come of age. I believed I was ready to be a full-time writer.
After I formally quit, I stayed on the J. Walter Thompson board of directors for a couple of years. It’s interesting that when you leave a job, but you’re still technically there, you’re not really there. I wasn’t, anyway. Not in mind, and not in spirit. It started to get a little ridiculous.
I can still remember sitting in the Thompson boardroom and feeling trapped. I’d look at my watch and think, Oooh, it’s only 8:30…
I’d catch myself looking at my watch again. Oooh, it’s only 8:51…
Oooh, 9:14.
Oooh, 9:31.
And that is precisely why I’ve refused to sit on any boards since I left Thompson. For me, life is too short for board meetings.
But let me tell you, life is pretty good for a bestselling writer. I think maybe I was born for this. And I still look at the world through the lens of a kid from Newburgh, New York. That helps me stay down-to-earth. Keeps things real, keeps me humble.