Mr. Write's Page

The late Richard V. Morse was my boss through most of the 1990s. Dick was a former New York adman who came south. Shakespeare was his passion. He was smart, melodramatic, charming, and proudly amoral. Dick was a lovable scoundrel.

To end a conversation, Dick was fond of saying, “So – do we have a clear sense of direction?“

When Dick left the company, I wasn’t there for his retirement party, as the following letter explains.

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September 10, 1998.

Dear Dick,

I regret very much that I won’t be here for your retirement ceremony. I considered postponing my vacation, but after thinking long and hard about it, I decided, “Nah!”

I want to take this opportunity to express my thoughts in writing – using the very skills that you, during your long tenure here, sometimes allowed me to use.

There were times – Lord, were there times – when I have gone into your office, sputtering and fuming about some grievance, mad as hell.

There were other times – Lord, were there other times – when I disagreed strongly with something you said. Or did. Or didn’t do. Or forgot to do. And I went into your office, jaws clenched, mad as hell.

And every single time I did that, you let me have my say.

In all these years, you never failed to listen when I wanted to talk. And you always treated me with courtesy and respect.

As time goes on, and I think back on the Morse Years here, I probably will remember one thing above all else: you allowed our department to be a comfortable, friendly, fun place to work. No other department in this company has enjoyed a work environment like ours.

I must say, in all honesty, that this long journey with you – this long, long journey – now that I think about it, this really, really long journey – did have its bumps in the road.

For example, some years ago, you spat out a certain rash pronouncement about me and my copywriters that keeps coming back to haunt you.

But I believe sincerely that when you said, “Screw the Copy Department,” you were merely expressing affection.

And I believe just as sincerely that it was your wry Pennsylvania wit at play when you said, “Moral high ground? There is no moral high ground!”

I’ll miss you, Dick. Thanks to you, even when I don’t know where I’m going, I’ll always have a clear sense of direction.

Kindest regards,

Rocky