I don’t know why fortune smiles on some.
And lets the rest go free.

THE EAGLES, “THE SAD CAFE”

Learn to say no. It will be of more
use to you than the ability to read Latin.

CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON

I am always honored and surprised when asked to speak at writers’ conferences. Here is what I tell them:

A few years back I wrote a book called Making Life Rich Without Any Money, and it made me lots of money. There were book royalties, which were modest and nice. Then came the speaking engagements. A lady pulled me aside after one of them and invited me to join her agency. My speeches on being rich without money would fetch five figures a talk (without decimal points), she said, a sum triple the advance on the book.

I thought of Al Gore, who warns of global warming and then takes a stretch limousine to catch his private plane home to sit in a heated pool in his Tennessee mansion that consumes twenty times the electricity used by the average American house.¹⁵

I thanked the lady but turned her down out of principle. Then I kicked myself all the way home.

My wife, who practices what I preach, reminded me that it’s tough to teach about simplicity while stockpiling stuff. That you can’t lip-sync at life. “We don’t own anything,” she said, “it’s all on loan. We have a bigger purpose on the planet.” Stuff like that. I plugged my ears and hummed real loud.

Part of why I would like to have bundles of thousand-dollar bills beneath my mattress is that I grew up below what our government calls the poverty line. And though I’ve heard that money won’t buy you happiness, I’d like to research the notion for myself.

A dozen years ago my first book landed on a bestseller list. My elementary school teachers prepared me for numerous things, but not for success. If asked who might become a successful writer, they would have singled out girls with horn-rimmed spectacles who sat upright in their chairs, finishing assignments on time. My report cards prepared me for failure. But success? It is worse, my friends.

First off, a publicist calls to inform you that complete strangers want to talk with you. They want you to be on the radio (what will I say?) or on television (what will I wear?). She tells you that they’re couriering you stuff like plane tickets to different cities; you, who gets lost driving to the grocery store. They promise to pay for everything, though—everything but twenty-four-hour limousine service and movies in your hotel room. (Someone else already tried this. My lawyer said I can’t tell you his name.) Next up, the publisher swiftly couriers you another book contract with an advance three times the amount of the first one, and you sign before they retract the thing and tell you they were joking.

When the check arrives, so does a book cover awaiting your approval. You laugh so hard that vital organs begin to hurt because you haven’t written a single word of the book yet. While you’re still midway through writing the first chapter, a marketing guru calls to tell you how many copies bookstores have already ordered, and you begin to experience respiratory problems. Expectations aren’t so great when they are someone else’s.

Reporters conduct interviews. It is intoxicating. They ask you what it’s like to be an author. “I write much because I am paid little,” you say, and they like that. Your poverty endears you to them. You tell them that the garbage can is a writer’s best friend, that writing a book is like driving a car at night: You can’t see very far, but you follow the lights. You tell them that writing is the hardest way of earning a living, with the possible exception of loading hand grenades.

Fellow writers ask you to review their manuscripts and offer advice or, better yet, write a note of recommendation to a publisher of your choosing. You write them back: “This is great stuff. I’m sorry I have no time to read it.” They print your first sentence on the covers of their books. You ask a friend for advice, and he grows quiet. “I’m not boasting,” you say, “I’m having a panic attack.” And you are.

An editor calls. He is flying in to meet with you about more projects. Others discover your phone number. Accountants. Agents. Critics. Magazine editors. Hopeful authors. Financial planners. Fans in prison. Little kids who want your picture. The tax audit guy. No man can serve two masters, you think. But how about twenty-three? Surely that’s possible. But it isn’t. It’s like you are a bag of sand, and someone cut a hole in the bottom. You are dying of easy accessibility.

Dear people call you late at night to discuss your new book and how it relates to their unique problems. Could you drive to their house and help them with their marriage? You tell them you would, but you’ve hardly seen your own wife the past week. Still, they find your address and drive long distances to tell you of their childhoods, their failures, their sins. You advise them to talk with their minister. “He’s tired of me,” they say.

You cut your hair, and people write to discuss the new style. You find yourself standing before audiences of thousands—you, who couldn’t speak up in Sunday school for fear of ridicule. You go to sleep complaining to your wife of chest pains and she says, “Just say no. It was good enough for Nancy Reagan.”

And then one day you wake up and smell the decaf. It comes in the form of a beautiful letter. “My life was changed forever… My family and I are following Christ after reading your book.” And you get down on your knees and repent of your whining and give thanks to Almighty God for the privilege and the pains and the joys of being a writer. You thank Him for the true friends who stick around—even in the midst of your success. For a wife who gives all your money away. A woman who advises you to take a couple of those speaking engagements a year and use the money to help others.

And you thank God that throughout history He hasn’t always used the ones who please Him; He uses whomever He pleases. Even you.