One muggy August afternoon in 1987, three months after my son Will was born, a TV reporter stopped me at an intersection of 11th and Nicollet in downtown Minneapolis.
“What do you think giving birth would be like?” he asked.
His timing was perfect.
At that moment I pictured Will’s mother, Valerie, during labor, flashing looks at me that looked not just pained but homicidal. Fortunately, her anesthesiologist saved us both by injecting Val with huge doses of morphine.
So until now, whenever I recalled my favorite book acknowledgment, in which James Simon Kunen compared writing a book to having a baby—“Both bring something new into the world, and both are a pain in the a—”—I’d always thought, “That’s clever, but writing a book doesn’t make you hurt all over.” That was until now.
I used to run 110 miles a week; that was easier. After edit eighteen on this book, I stopped counting. The table of contents may be the most edited in publishing history. I changed a single verb in the Beatles story six times; I beat up that poor word so many times that I started to fear it might retaliate.
Fortunately, many people helped on the birth of this one.
Rick Wolff, Leila Porteous, and everyone else at Hachette have praised, paid, and waited patiently throughout our sixteen-year partnership; L&B McCree and Bernadette Evangelist always make my ideas look better; Kristen Azzara and Bob Castillo fixed everything else.
Stanford’s David Potter’s ovation-provoking course on the American character inspired this book, and my other teachers—Theodor Geisel, John McPhee, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., David Kennedy, Paul Robinson, James Robinson, Robert Horn, Cliff Rowe, William Zinsser, and William Clebsch—still influence me. I’d never have met most of those men were it not for Fred Hargadon and his admissions staff at Stanford, who in 1969 placed a wild bet on an underachiever from an Oregon town of sixty-five people. Thank you, everyone.
Larry Espel introduced me to Thomas Gilovich, whose work changed how I think, what I write, and what I advise.
Anyone who writes a book like this must be under some spell of Dr. Ellen J. Langer, who one day might be remembered as the pioneer of the great revolution of this century: how we think about ourselves.
The editors of Science Daily, Arts & Letters, and Reveries nicely summarize news in psychology, culture, and consumer behavior and gave me several ideas.
Twenty-two years ago my first editor, Steve Kaplan, advised me, “Tell stories.” Every time I thank him for that, Steve acts as if it never happened. It did, Steve.
Years later, Malcolm Gladwell demonstrated that I needn’t rush those stories, a lesson that helped me discover even more.
Three men have been special inspirations: Roger McGuinn, best known for leading The Byrds; John Lloyd Young, the Tony Award–winning actor in Jersey Boys; and Brandon Flowers of The Killers.
My father Harry and mother Alice promised my life would turn out nicely if I listened to them. Before they died—Dad much too young, mom four months before I began this manuscript—I hoped they realized they were right and that I was grateful. I still am.
Will, Harry, Cole, and Cooper always asked, “How’s the book going?” and give me the spirit that infuses my books at their sunniest.
My remarkable sister Becky and her husband Jim—a delightful marriage of art and science—and brother David look smarter to me every week.
Neroli Lacey, Pam Haros, and Ty Votaw always listen hard and speak gently and provided valuable feedback. Thanks to you, too, Tyler Pace.
Laura, Kevin, Chirsty, Jim, Alex, Rachelle, and Auri of Burger Jones; Jen, Luke, Brianna, Eddie, Abby, Stevie, Shauna, Merrit, Kryn, and Kate at Caribou Coffee. Thanks for not charging rent for the tables.
I am indebted and grateful to Jason Damberg and Suzanne Remington, for reasons they know well.
Peter Glanville, Jim Stein, Jim Rockwell, Tim Klein, Molly Gillin, and Stephanie Prem, all of Lowry Hill, I’ve loved our ride.
As always, thank you Cliff Greene—and Kim, too.
Midway through this book’s creation, The Duke and his saintly companion introduced me to their faith. Later on those Sunday nights and many others, we sat under bright moons that lit up their cobbled steps while we kept alive the world’s cigar, gin, and wine industries and talked until we were drowsy. On my last day, I will remember those nights.
If the Olympics ever adds Tandem Laughing, Kevin McGregor and I will one day stand atop the medal stand as the “Star-Spangled Banner” plays. Its final notes will prompt tears down my cheeks, and Kevin to lean over and whisper something about a blonde in the second row. Everyone needs a Kevin McGregor, but decades on earth convince me: There’s only one.
On December 13, 2009, Rita Lundgren, who had lived for twenty-one years in my snapshot memory of her, reappeared. By Christmas Eve I learned that she has a gift like my sister’s, a painter’s gift for seeing. Although she arrived late, Rita gave wise advice, and her spirit jumped right in here. You can hear it in my introduction and summary and are hearing it now.
All my life, I’ve been blessed to have lived among gifted people like Kevin and Rita. My mother’s cooking attracted praise from the legendary chef James Beard, and my father Harry eliminated any need in our home for encyclopedias. Of three Rhodes Scholar friends, my best friend John Tillman, by his legendary freshman feat of writing a twenty-two-page research paper on the Albigensian Crusade entirely from memory, showed me that I needed to work much harder, particularly after my humbling afternoon two weeks later when I saw his professor’s note on the paper: “With minor revisions, this could be the seminal work on the subject.” Several friends inspired me by winning national championships and Olympic medals, which today are buried in their sock drawers because those medals are merely among their many accomplishments.
The last of these women and men became widely known for their gifts, but everyone listed here has a gift that he or she shared with me. I am incredibly grateful—damp-eyed as I write this. You make me know how lucky I am.