I don’t have a clue. He probably doesn’t
either. I’m sure there are forensic accountants, Schedule Cs, and colorful pie
charts with the secret formula for how this man, in today’s publishing climate,
earned so much money by simply putting pencil to paper (they say he
writes-outlines-edits long hand on legal pads), but I bet there’s no
one-sentence explanation. “Mr. Patterson, it was the Alex Cross fleece booties
that shot you from Forbes Stinking Rich to Forbes Obscenely Loaded.”
The only logical answer? James Patterson
supplies a high-demand product to an eager and willing consumer. That’s how he
does it. Who’s next? Who will be the next J.K., Danielle, John Grisham? I hope
it’s not me. I don’t want to be the next Gillian Flynn or E.L. James, either,
but for different reasons, and not because I hate going to the bank, something
they must be doing a lot of, too. It’s because, having read both Ms. Flynn and
Ms. James (kudos, ladies) I know I could never do what they’ve done (in the
first place) without giving up my life. For me to go that deep, I’d have to
shut off everything and everyone, and what if, when I dug out, everything and
everyone were gone?
Which brings me to a terrible confession:
I’m not in it for the money. I write with the luxury of knowing there will be dinner on the table and lights
on in my house if I bring in Sandra Brown numbers or, like many other happy
writers, I don’t.