Why I’m Giving a Speech For Free

Knowing what’s important can be more valuable than money

The Society of Authors would not be happy with me for disregarding their guidance on rates and fees:

We believe authors should be paid for the work they do. Paying authors shows proper recognition of their professional status, skills and experience and allows them to maintain a career.

Dozens of bloggers who dole out advice to writers, new and old, say the same thing. Don’t sell yourself short. Demand pay. Don’t be complicit in a system that devalues writing.

Oh, and the most treacherous pitfall: Don’t let them tell you it will be “good exposure.” The final word on this is Harlan Ellison whose well-traveled pay-the-writer rant I’ve posted before.

I couldn’t agree more. Pay the writer.

An exciting prospect…or so I thought.

I’ve been around the block. In the print era, I made a better-than-good living from fees, book advances, speaking gigs, and now royalties. One of my highest-paid appearances took me to São Paulo and other cities in Brazil.

The São Paulo gig was a writer’s dream but not because I “killed” the talk, sold lots of books, and earned the most I ever made for a speaking engagement.

I loved the experience. The people who worked for the magazine and the attendees were warm and utterly wonderful. Many spoke English, all wanted photos with me, and most wanted to give me a hug. I’m still in touch with some of them.

That was before the pandemic.

Still, imagine my delight when I receive an email from the editor-in-chief of one of Brazil’s biggest magazines. She wants to know if I’d consider speaking at this year’s seminario.

I agree to a video chat to discuss the details.

She’s not going to offer me any money, I think as the editor explains that it’s a virtual event. She talks about how wonderful it was to have me in Sao Paulo, in 2015 and 2016 and how “loved” I am in Brazil. I know a “but” will follow….and, sure enough, it does.

“We have no sponsors this year, but we love this event, so we’re going to figure out how to do it ourselves. As you can see,” she adds, gesturing to her work space — desk, shelves overflowing with books and papers, “we are working without any help.”

Two other staffers are on screen, each in a different setting — their respective homes, I assume.

The editor invites me to be her “partner.” Translation: We have no budget for speakers. I have to at least give her credit for coming up with a new euphemism for “exposure.”

“We will do interviews with you. We will promote your books. And you’ll have even more followers in Brazil,” she adds, just in case I don’t grasp what I will be “earning” from this partnership.

I hear myself say “yes.” The editor and her assistants are thrilled. Me, not so much. At best, I have mixed feelings. I’m honored and unpaid.

Stop! You shouldn’t write about this!

So why did I agree to do a 15-minute talk for nothing? My short answer — which admittedly doesn’t apply to anyone worried about where her next meal is coming from — is that some things are more important than money.

Respect and connection. Research suggests that “overall happiness in life is more related to how much you are respected and admired by those around you, not to the status that comes from how much money you have stashed in your bank account.” I made money from the Baby Whisperer books for the past 20 years, but what I value most are the emails I still get from grateful new parents telling me my words “saved” their life.

No doubt, the editor was “pitching” me, but it wasn’t all BS. My books are widely read in her country, I was well-received by attendees in the past, and I will be the only American writer on the bill this year. I sense genuine respect and admiration from her. Not so incidentally, I loved the Brazilians I met on my previous trips. While this conference won’t magically transport me, I feel a connection to my audience.

The experience. While money is undeniably necessary and makes life easier, spending on “things” pales in comparison to an experience. It’s why I always took my grandsons to Broadway shows instead of buying them expensive electronic gadgets. We tend to get tired of material “stuff,” and being well-schooled in capitalism we want more. But the memory of a special time can linger for years. So even appearing on line won’t afford much interaction with the attendees, the project has already puts me back in touch with an editor I admire. Also, it calls upon my creative self — and I like her a lot, too!

Control. I was able to sweeten the proposed “partnership” in a non-monetary way: The editor originally had in mind my giving a 45-minute talk; they would add subtitles. I reminded her that TED talks are 20 minutes or less for a good reason! Just as important, it will be deadly boring for me. In front of a live audience, I can punctuate a long talk with breaks that involve the audience — movement, questions, activities. I can see their faces. I can’t imaging droning on for 45 minutes in a room by myself. We agree that I’ll talk for 15 or 20 minutes and then answer questions the magazine solicits from online readers.

A topic I want to explore. It’s no small irony that the theme of this year’s conference is “what’s most important.” Seriously, especially, in the wake of the pandemic, is there anything more vital and pressing to ponder than what really matters? As the research I’ve cited above suggests, unless you’re starving or sick, it’s not money that matters. It’s connection and grit and a sense of responsibility. Before you speak or act, know yourself. Know what your goal is — the “prize” you want to keep in sight. Reevaluate if you’re not sure.

Giving back. As Winston Churchill once said, “We make a living by what we get. We make a life by what we give.” I’ve done well in my career. I have a lot of knowledge and experience to share. And I no longer have to prove myself. It’s okay if sometimes I give without getting paid. Isn’t that what Erickson’s generativity stage is all about? It’s also why social science researchers and clinicians repeatedly stress: Giving is better than receiving.

Shedding the “shtetl mentality.” I have to be honest: I worry about this piece. Will other potential hirers think I can be “had” for the price of a compliment? Will fellow writers think me foolish for saying “yes” to a no-pay assignment? Will they be angry?

I am reminded of a conversation I had in the 90s with family therapist Ron Taffel, then a frequent co-author. “Writers don’t like to say what they are paid, because of a shtetl mentality,” he said, referring to the way European Jews were conditioned over generations to not make waves. Modern writers are similarly afflicted — out of fear of spoiling it for themselves, getting in trouble with publishers, or the jealousy of their peers.

That conversation took place in the days when authors still earning six-figure advances. Arguably, it’s more important now than ever for writers to be honest about what we “get” from our work, even when it’s not money.

Writing makes me happy. Yes, money pays for groceries, and eating makes me happy, too. But as activities go, I’m at my best when I’m creating. I have never had runner’s high — among other reasons, because I’m not a fan of working out. But when I’m in the writing groove, I experience what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls “flow.”

Granted, writing is torture at times , but eventually I figure out how to open a piece, what comes next, and so on. I call it “breaking the code,” and it’s different for each time I write. But when I get it, that rush is better than any drug I’ve ever tried, or even a big-fat pay check. (Not that there’s anything wrong with a big-fat pay check!)

Fellow writers, please weigh in!

Two other pieces on writing and the creative process, the first humor (but not really), the second, about the struggle:

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