When we lived in Ireland, a neighbor advertised his wood-cutting services with a hand-painted sign along the road. He’d bring a cord of wood over, and instead of dumping it on the lawn and driving away like any self-respecting American contractor, he’d stack it in the shed. Neat as a pin. (If you’ve ever stacked wood, you know how exciting this is!)
The fellow wasn’t particularly sophisticated. His father and mother ran a little farm and he made his living with wood. Hard, honest work.
But here’s the thing that still haunts me… after he’d spent hours cutting the wood, delivering it, then stacking it beautifully in the shed, instead of coming to the door and knocking for his payment, he drove away.
Just… drove away.
We were told this was part of the tradition. Tradesmen would do a job and show up months later for their payment. This had happened to us before. Something about avoiding taxes, about cash payments exchanged in the marketplace to avoid a paper trail. A fear of the tax man.
What absolutely killed us is that no matter how many times we tried, we couldn’t pay the man. He’d done all that work. For nothing.
One day we moved back to the States and we still regret taking something for free. Like, did we try hard enough?
I think about that woodcutter a lot. Especially when it’s time to promote something I’ve made—a service, a book, a consultation. And I feel that familiar twinge.
Unfriendly. That’s what asking for money feels like. Unneighborly somehow.
I wish I could tell you I’ve figured this out. That I’ve conquered the discomfort. But I still have to remind myself. Every damn time.
And then I remember that woodcutter, and what his inability to knock on our door actually did to us.
We felt bad.
Not grateful. Not like we’d gotten away with something clever. We felt robbed—of the ability to reciprocate. To complete the transaction. To be good neighbors back.
I see authors do this all the time.
They write the book. They craft it carefully, stack every chapter neat as a pin. They pour months—sometimes years—of their expertise and hard-won wisdom into the thing.
And then they drive away.
They’re shy about the money part. The promotion part. The “please buy my book” part. They’ve done the labor but can’t bring themselves to knock on the door.
Their readers are standing there, wallets in hand, genuinely wanting to pay. And the author has driven off, leaving everyone feeling vaguely guilty and unsatisfied.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand: the business part is part of the job.
You haven’t finished the job until you knock. Until you let people complete the exchange.
When you don’t ask, you’re not being noble. You’re not being humble. You’re denying people the chance to be good neighbors back. You’re leaving them holding a debt they can’t pay off.
And that debt? It never gets settled. The relationship never gets completed.
There’s something almost tragic in that.
So the question isn’t whether promoting yourself feels friendly or unfriendly. The question is: What kind of relationship do you actually want with your readers?
One where you give and give and drive away, leaving them vaguely guilty?
Or one where you knock, they pay, and everyone walks away feeling right about the exchange?
Stack the wood beautifully. Yes.
But for God’s sake, knock on the door.
