I work a lot. Less now than before, but still more than I should. I like work and will probably continue to do some kind of it for as long as I can.

Last fall, I read Walter Isaacson’s biography on Steve Jobs. I’m fascinated by Jobs, and found the book hard to put down. I wanted to better understand the man, and perhaps gain insight into his success. The part that stuck with me, though, wasn’t what I had expected. It was that Jobs authorized the biography so that his kids could know him.

For all the insight into the mind of the consumer, ability to see past the short-sightedness of focus groups, once-in-a-lifetime mix that enabled him to build the world’s most valuable company, he was stumped by the most simple of problems.

If you want your kids to know you, spend time with them. (Biographer unnecessary.)

For a long time, work was my only thing. I worked evenings, weekends, and Christmas. At those rare times when I wasn’t at work in body, I was there in spirit, unable to speak or think of much else. I wanted so badly to climb the mountain that I stopped asking why I was doing it.

I admire Steve for the mountains he climbed. At the same time, I wonder if he missed the whole point, becoming the John Henry of our time. He won the race, but at what cost?

Me? I may turn out to be a failure in business, but I refuse to fail my kids.

I leave the final words to Bill; he says it so much better than me: