The Christmas Box Miracle Page 10
The Wednesday before Christmas I was in a shopping mall parking terrace when I received a phone call from my secretary, Heather. “Some man just called,” she said. “I think he said he was from Dell Publishing. Some big publishinghouse. He said that theNew York Timesadvance report just came out and he wanted to congratulate you becauseThe Christmas Boxjust hit theNew York Timesbestseller list.”
Despite the fact thatThe Christmas Boxwas in less than one out of five bookstores in America, one week after the phone call it debuted at number two on theNew York Timespaperback bestseller list.
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THE DAY MY BOOK HIT THElist, publishers decided they really did want my book after all. The calls began to come. In addition to the publisher calls, I was receiving about three movie calls a day. I had already optioned the motion picture rights to a local company that eventually inked a deal with CBS.The Christmas Boxwas made into a holiday special starring Maureen O’Hara and Richard Thomas. It went on to win an Emmy and to be the highest-rated television movie of 1995.
The fifth publishing house to call made an offer. “I’m authorized to offer you two million dollars right now for the hardcover and paperback rights to your book,” he said.
“Two million dollars,” I repeated.
“We don’t want to mess around with an auction.”
I had never before heard of a book auction. “I’m not selling the paperback rights,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I can’t,” I replied.
“Why?” he repeated.
“Because I had a feeling that I’m not supposed to sell them.”
A few days earlier as I was meditating on my book I had had an impression that I was not to sell the paperback rights. And that I was to bring the inexpensive paperback version out at the same time as the hardcover. I knew I was giving the book away and I didn’t doubt that I would lose money by doing so, but making money wasn’t the point. Everyone was supposed to be able to afford this book.
“No publisher will buy your book if you don’t sell the paperback rights,” he said.
“No publisher wanted it before,” I said.
Frustrated, he wished me luck and said good-bye. He called back the next day.
“One million dollars and you keep the paperback rights.”
“I need some time to think about it,” I said. “I’ve been on the road for several months and I’m tired. My wife’s going to have a baby in a few days.”
“I understand. Congratulations,” he said. “About the baby as well as the book.”
“Thanks. I’m also looking for an agent.”
“Do you have one in mind?”
“No. But there are several calling.”
“I bet,” he said.
•
The next day the doorbell rang. A man held one of the largest flower bouquets I had ever seen. I read the note.Congratulations on the new baby. Simon & Schuster.It was the first of the flood to come. After two days, our dining room and kitchen were filled with flowers until our house looked more like a funeral parlor than a home. At one point the doorbell rang and Keri said, “Oh no, not more flowers.”
“Probably are,” I said.
“How long do you think this will keep up?”
“Until I sign with one of them.”
•
Abigail Hope was born January 3. Mother and child were both fine. After another week of avoiding calls I started the task of finding an agent.
•
Choosing an agent was more difficult than I imagined. I spoke to every agent who called, made what I believed was an informed choice, then knelt down to pray for a confirmation. To my surprise a different name came to mind than the one I had chosen.Laurie Liss.I was puzzled. Even though Laurie Liss had a few years previously discovered a little book calledThe Bridges of Madison County,she was the last name on my list of prospective agents. And according to her own agent bio, she specialized in feminist books. But like previous inspirations, it would not let go. After several days, I reluctantly agreed to meet with her. She flew into Salt Lake to meet with me.
Laurie did not look the way I thought an agent should look. She was my age, small, slender, with graying hair and stylish glasses that made her look older than she really was.
“I loved your book,” she said. “It touched a quiet place in my heart. I believe there is something very special about it.”
It was a good opening line. But I was waiting for her to compare my book toThe Bridges of Madison County,a book that, at its core, is about adultery.
“I felt the same way when I first readThe Bridges of Madison-County . . .”
Here it comes, I thought.
“. . . except thatBridgeswas about adultery. Your book is about the best within us. It’s about loving our children and caring for each other.”
Within moments Laurie was telling me everything I believed about my book. Either she was reading my mind or she understood my vision, I thought. By the time sheboarded the plane to return to New York I knew she was the right agent. But I didn’t want to admit it. It took me two days to call her. “Congratulations,” I said, “you have a new author.”
“Congratulations yourself,” she replied, “you have a damn good agent.”
Laurie called all the publishers who had called me, as well as a few others, and announced an auction. With an offer already on the table for a million dollars, she told them to “open their checkbooks to seven figures.”
I flew into New York and Laurie met me at the airport. Early the next morning we began meeting with publishers. I learned that I knew nothing about the publishing establishment. As we walked out of the first meeting I said, “I think we should just meet with large publishers.”
Laurie smiled. “St. Martin’s is a very large publisher,” she replied.
After two days of meetings I flew home. The last thing Laurie said to me was, “Don’t talk to anyone but me.”
The next morning I received a phone call around ten o’clock mountain time.
“Round one is over,” Laurie said.
“What are we at?”
“Are you sitting down?” she asked with mock drama. I sat down.
“Two and three-quarter million.”
For a moment I was speechless. Then I asked, “Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
“Did everyone else drop out?”
“Only two publishers. This is going on for days.”
The auction went on for two and a half days, at the end of which Simon & Schuster paid more than 4 million dollars for North American hardcover rights. I suppose it was like winning the lottery. But that was the kind of thing that only happened to someone else.
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Gold is an able servant but a cruel master.
THELOOKINGGLASS
THE FIRST INSTALLMENTfrom my publishing contract came in April. When the check arrived my younger brother, Barry, who had come to work for me, brought it into my office. For a moment we both just sat and stared at it.
“You ever see a check that big?” Barry asked.
“No. Definitely not with my name on it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Put it in the bank.”
I faxed a copy of the check to a few of my friends (they had asked to see it), then Barry and I went to our bank. I walked up to the teller and handed her the check. “I’ll need some cash back,” I said.
For a moment she just stared at the check. Then she said, “I think you need to see someone else about this.”
She led us over to a man sitting at a desk. Barry and I sat down in the chairs in front of him.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“I was just trying to deposit this check and I asked forsome cash back.” I handed him the check. I saw the surprise on his face. “Just a moment,” he said, and he left the room. About five minutes later he returned, followed by a tall, smiling man.
Barry and I looked at each other. We didn’t know there was another side. The smiling man led us over to the promised land of banking services. On the other side of the bank everyone knew who I was. Everyone seemed much happier over there. And there were little dishes of candy at every desk.
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How quickly it is forgotten that Midas’s gift was a curse, not a blessing.
THELOOKINGGLASS
AFEW DAYSLATERKERIand I sat in our white minivan in the parking lot outside a financial consultant’s office. The meeting we had just endured was not what we had expected. We had talked for nearly two hours about trust funds and portfolios, the problems of wealth and how to shield our children from the money should they become drug addicts and alcoholics. The well-meaning advisers, in an effort to help us protect our funds, shared story after story of families broken by wealth. My mother was always worried about the effect of money on her children. It was a trait I would likewise carry. In an interview with theNew York Times,my agent said, “I’ve never seen anyone so nervous about money as Rick.”
Now Keri was worried as well.
“Not exactly what I expected,” I said.
Keri looked at me seriously. “Maybe we should just give the money back.”
This led to a lively discussion. By the time we left the parking lot we had come to the conclusion that our windfallwas not inherently good or bad. What mattered was how we chose to use it. We decided that we would not rush out and buy new cars and toys. We would move gradually. And we would teach our children how to use money by helping others. We decided to start a foundation.
I had one other desire. My father was in his sixties and was still doing heavy construction work without any retirement put aside. On several occasions my brothers and I had discussed what we could do to help. I went to my father. “Dad, you can retire now.”
His reaction rolled me. “I don’t need your money,” he said tersely.
In trying to help, I had offended him. Having money was more difficult than I imagined.
A few days later it occurred to me that my father’s business experience and master’s in social work qualified him to run our foundation. I asked him to come help us spend our money helping children. My father was more than happy to dust off his M.S.W., and to everyone’s benefit, he accepted the job.
Every child is worthy of love.
THELETTER
Once my father was settled in his new position, we sat down to discuss the direction our new foundation would take.
“Keri and I want to help abused children,” I said, “but we’re not sure how. I think if you look around, the cause might find us.”
My father went up to the University of Utah to meet with Dean Kay Dea of the Graduate School of Social Work. “If anyone knows what Utah’s children need,” my father said, “it’s him.”
At the dean’s suggestion we sponsored a children’s advocacy conference, inviting child advocates from around Utah. We asked them directly:What is the single most important thing we could do to help our abused and neglected children?
We learned three things from our conference: First, that for the most part these advocates did not communicate with one another. Second, that there are fierce turf wars in the field of child advocacy and these groups did not especially like one another; in fact, we had to seat some of them at different tables. Third, we learned that nearly everyone in attendance was in agreement about what needed to be done to help children.
It was determined that we desperately needed a building, a shelter where a child could be taken twenty-four hours a day, rather than just being thrust into the first home available whether it was an appropriate environment or not.
But more than just a shelter, this facility should be a one-stop mall of children’s services, bringing these services to the child in a comfortable setting and encouraging dialoguebetween different child advocacy groups by putting them under the same roof.
In addition it would become a community resource center, strengthening families and children and drawing support from the community it served through donations and volunteerism.
To maintain the integrity of the foundation that would operate the facility, I committed to pay for all foundation administrative overhead costs from the sales of my books, so all other donations went directly to help the children.
The concept of the Christmas Box House was born.
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The premonitions that we so quickly dismiss are sometimes our truest glances of reality.
THELETTER
INMARCHIFLEW BACKto New York to meet with my new publisher. We discussed book design and marketing plans. They were amenable to all of my ideas except for one: the paperback release. The afternoon of the second day I was brought into a meeting with the sales managers. It was actually an ambush. The V.P. of sales spoke first.
“You can’t publish the paperback,” he said. “You’ll destroy any chance you have at success.”
“I have to,” I said.
They all looked at me. “Why?” one of them asked.
“Because Ifeelthat I have to.”
The sales director tried her luck. “Let me explain this. Fall is the most competitive time of the year for publishers. You’ll be competing with the biggest authors and books in the world. By bringing out the paperback at the same time as the hardcover you’ll split your sales. It’s like playing basketball with Michael Jordan and spotting him points. Yourbook will never hit a bestseller list. We’ll have fewer sells, you’ll make less money. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense,” I said, “but I knew going into this that I had to do it this way. So did you. It was part of the deal.”
Finally, at an impasse, the V.P. said something I find even more remarkable today than I did then. “You know, nothing about this book has been conventional. If Rick feels that this is the way it’s supposed to be, maybe it is.”
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When I consider the hardships that some must face, my troubles seem foolish and petty—a succession of quixotic battles. To God, perhaps, they are all windmills.
THELOCKET
THECHRISTMASBOXWASreleased by Simon & Schuster in hardcover on October 11. Within a few weeks it hit America’s major bestseller lists, including theNew York Times,theWall Street JournalandUSA Today.
In early November I arrived in Atlanta and was picked up by a media escort named Lynda. She was attractive and congenial. She commented that she had purchased a dozen copies of my book. This surprised me as she had earlier mentioned that she was Jewish.
“Do you often buy Christmas books?” I asked.
She smiled at the question. “No. But there’s something special about your book.”
“There is,” I said. “Watch what happens today. People will come to my book signing and they won’t know why. After I talk to them they’ll tell me that they’ve just lost a child.”
I don’t know if she believed me. My first signing thatday was at a Sam’s Club. We had been there for only a few minutes when a woman wandered up to my table.
“Would you like a book?” I asked.
“No, I guess not. Actually I need something for my sister. She just lost her child.”
I talked with the woman for a while and I signed a copy of the book for her sister.
After she left, Lynda said, “That’s amazing.” A few hours later we dropped by a mall for a “drive-by signing.” (That’s when you sign the store’s stock of your book and meet the bookstore personnel, but avoid the public.) As I signed the last of my books on the front shelf a woman walked up behind me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Signing my book.”
“What book is it?”
I held out a copy.“The Christmas Box.”
Lynda, being a d
utiful escort, quickly said, “Would you like a copy?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “Actually, I’ve been walking the mall for a couple of hours looking for something for my friend. Her little boy was just killed.”
I spoke with the woman for a few minutes and she walked away with a book. As we left the store Lynda turned to me.
“Does this really follow you everywhere you go?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. There’s no explanation for it.”
“I think there is,” I said. “I think God loves his children and he has a lot of children that need to be healed.”
At another book signing, in Las Vegas, I told the young woman helping me at the table about the phenomenon. Within the hour a woman approached us. “Will this book help someone who has just lost a child?”
I told her about my book and she purchased a copy. After the woman left, the young bookstore employee eyed me curiously, then asked, “Are you real?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you a real person? Or are you really an angel?”
I smiled. “No, I’m real.”
She still looked at me peculiarly.
“Really,” I said, “you can ask my wife.”
•
In many respects my second book tour was more difficult than my first. I was the media flavor of the week.Time, Newsweek, USA Today, Ladies’ Home Journal, Good Housekeeping,theWashington Post,theNew York Times,theWall Street Journaland hundreds of other publications had all called for interviews or sent reporters. My publicist had a four-inch stackof media requests on her desk. I was constantly on the road, and even when I was home I was not left alone.During one brief stop in Utah I kissed Jenna good night, then told her I would be leaving again early in the morning. Her eyes watered.“Dad,” she said, “why did you write a book about spending time with your children and now you’re leaving again?”