"Let me tell you somethin'." He paused to be sure he had my full attention. "Havin' a life worth livin' means findin' a reason for livin' it. That's all. A reason for livin' it."
I found those words coming out of the mouth of a grieving father in my first novel.
"I guess nobody ever finds out what the hell it all means," he continues. "But I don't even need that. All's I want is just a way to keep some kind of faith, you know? Some reason to keep on grindin'."
Those are the last words the character speaks before that reason is given to him. But it is given to him because he has been proactive, has pressed for a truth that delivers the gift of a lifetime.
We all search for what brings meaning to us at different times in our lives. Yes, lives. We may not have nine like the proverbial cat, but we all have more than one. We work at different things, we plow ahead, and we hope we get lucky. But my father told me more than once, "Don't wait to get lucky in life. Make your own luck."
I was born lucky. I was delivered to loving parents, so I had no hand in that good fortune. Looking back from the perspective of my eighth decade working in the entertainment industry, however, I can see that the sage advice from my father has paid many dividends.
When I was 8-years-old, Marlene Dietrich's daughter, Maria Manton, urged my parents to look into acting in radio, where there was a need for children who could read well. That nudge led to six years, from the late 1940s to the early 1950s, when Johnny McGovern (my family name) was among the front rank of juvenile performers, being cast in regular roles on 15 weekly shows as well as leading and featured roles on major network anthologies, including 21 appearances on the prestigious Lux Radio Theater.
I now view performing professionally as my first life. One in which I had the same responsibility as the adult performers across the microphone from the box I stood on. Great and gifted performers like Jack Benny, Jimmy Durante, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Billie Burke, Agnes Moorehead, Gregory Peck, Richard Widmark, Lionel Barrymore, Eddie Anderson, Bud Abbot and Lou Costello. There was film work, too, most notably with Ronald Reagan and Broderick Crawford in "Night Unto Night," and as Doris Day and Gordon MacRae's son in "Tea For Two." I was speaking words written by wonderful writers, being directed by talented directors. It was training I was too young to know I was getting, too young to appreciate.
I thought so little of it that, as I moved into my teens, I told my parents I didn't want to do it any longer. I wanted to go to school with my neighborhood pals, play baseball, and football, and basketball, run track, and lead a normal kid's life. They were great parents. They listened. They understood. They agreed. And they pointed me toward college.
That first life wasn't over, though. Shortly after I began college, a casting director at Universal studios who knew my work as a juvenile called to ask me to do a small-but-key part in "The Benny Goodman Story." One scene. One day. Good money. I did it. Two weeks later, the same casting director called again to say a producer on the lot had looked at the scene and wanted me to be part of a teenage band with John Saxon and Sal Mineo in the first Rock and Roll musical, "Rock Pretty Baby." Two months. Good part. Better money. Too big a temptation for a college student to turn down. I took the part, and it led to five years of steady work as an actor in films and television, working with stars like Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Bette Davis, Loretta Young, Jean Simmons, Esther Williams, Glen Ford, Red Buttons, Ward Bond, and other talented actors like Strother Martin, Warren Oates, Dean Jones, and Sandra Dee. I worked for directors Robert Wise, Don Siegel, Stanley Donen, and George Marshall. I studied the craft of acting with a brilliant teacher, Jeff Corey, alongside classmates Jack Nicholson, Sally Kellerman, future director John Erman, and future screenwriter Robert Towne. I devoured plays and screenplays, and developed an interest in writing and working behind the camera.
During that latter phase of my first life, I auditioned for a part in a film called "Hold Back The Night," a story that dealt with the 1st Marine Division at the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. I had read the book, and knew the role I wanted to play in the film, a cocky kid from Nebraska named Nick Tinker. When I went in to meet the director, Alan Dwan (D.W. Griffith's protégé), he told me he had already cast that part. I gambled, stepped into character, and said that was too bad. I talked about the character in the book, his background, determination and athleticism, why I thought we were so much alike. I said I wished we'd met earlier, and that I hoped he hadn't made a mistake, because I was Nick Tinker. Staying in character, I sho
I found those words coming out of the mouth of a grieving father in my first novel.
"I guess nobody ever finds out what the hell it all means," he continues. "But I don't even need that. All's I want is just a way to keep some kind of faith, you know? Some reason to keep on grindin'."
Those are the last words the character speaks before that reason is given to him. But it is given to him because he has been proactive, has pressed for a truth that delivers the gift of a lifetime.
We all search for what brings meaning to us at different times in our lives. Yes, lives. We may not have nine like the proverbial cat, but we all have more than one. We work at different things, we plow ahead, and we hope we get lucky. But my father told me more than once, "Don't wait to get lucky in life. Make your own luck."
I was born lucky. I was delivered to loving parents, so I had no hand in that good fortune. Looking back from the perspective of my eighth decade working in the entertainment industry, however, I can see that the sage advice from my father has paid many dividends.
When I was 8-years-old, Marlene Dietrich's daughter, Maria Manton, urged my parents to look into acting in radio, where there was a need for children who could read well. That nudge led to six years, from the late 1940s to the early 1950s, when Johnny McGovern (my family name) was among the front rank of juvenile performers, being cast in regular roles on 15 weekly shows as well as leading and featured roles on major network anthologies, including 21 appearances on the prestigious Lux Radio Theater.
I now view performing professionally as my first life. One in which I had the same responsibility as the adult performers across the microphone from the box I stood on. Great and gifted performers like Jack Benny, Jimmy Durante, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Billie Burke, Agnes Moorehead, Gregory Peck, Richard Widmark, Lionel Barrymore, Eddie Anderson, Bud Abbot and Lou Costello. There was film work, too, most notably with Ronald Reagan and Broderick Crawford in "Night Unto Night," and as Doris Day and Gordon MacRae's son in "Tea For Two." I was speaking words written by wonderful writers, being directed by talented directors. It was training I was too young to know I was getting, too young to appreciate.
I thought so little of it that, as I moved into my teens, I told my parents I didn't want to do it any longer. I wanted to go to school with my neighborhood pals, play baseball, and football, and basketball, run track, and lead a normal kid's life. They were great parents. They listened. They understood. They agreed. And they pointed me toward college.
That first life wasn't over, though. Shortly after I began college, a casting director at Universal studios who knew my work as a juvenile called to ask me to do a small-but-key part in "The Benny Goodman Story." One scene. One day. Good money. I did it. Two weeks later, the same casting director called again to say a producer on the lot had looked at the scene and wanted me to be part of a teenage band with John Saxon and Sal Mineo in the first Rock and Roll musical, "Rock Pretty Baby." Two months. Good part. Better money. Too big a temptation for a college student to turn down. I took the part, and it led to five years of steady work as an actor in films and television, working with stars like Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Bette Davis, Loretta Young, Jean Simmons, Esther Williams, Glen Ford, Red Buttons, Ward Bond, and other talented actors like Strother Martin, Warren Oates, Dean Jones, and Sandra Dee. I worked for directors Robert Wise, Don Siegel, Stanley Donen, and George Marshall. I studied the craft of acting with a brilliant teacher, Jeff Corey, alongside classmates Jack Nicholson, Sally Kellerman, future director John Erman, and future screenwriter Robert Towne. I devoured plays and screenplays, and developed an interest in writing and working behind the camera.
During that latter phase of my first life, I auditioned for a part in a film called "Hold Back The Night," a story that dealt with the 1st Marine Division at the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. I had read the book, and knew the role I wanted to play in the film, a cocky kid from Nebraska named Nick Tinker. When I went in to meet the director, Alan Dwan (D.W. Griffith's protégé), he told me he had already cast that part. I gambled, stepped into character, and said that was too bad. I talked about the character in the book, his background, determination and athleticism, why I thought we were so much alike. I said I wished we'd met earlier, and that I hoped he hadn't made a mistake, because I was Nick Tinker. Staying in character, I sho