Аманда Палмер: The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

The story continues. Come along.

Twitterfolk: I’m @amandapalmer. If you’re talking about the book, please use #ArtOfAsking. Love.

Oh, and these guys: Neil Gaiman is at neilgaiman.com(and he’s @neilhimself on Twitter). Anthony Martignetti is at camstories.net(there’s some great free recordings of Anthony reading his memoir there. He’s also @dramartignetti).

This book, much like my TED talk and other aspects of my life, was a crowdsourced effort.

I wrote it very fast and asked for a shit-ton of help. I will try to keep this entertaining so you’ll actually read it.

First and foremost, I feel like my team gets slightly short-shrifted in this book, because it was way less complicated to write certain parts without including the gory details of how things function in AmandaLand. But so much of my work would be impossible without the small, dedicated collection of people who have my back every single day as I head off to work.

Case in point: the midnight-doorbell that I rang on the Lower East Side was only rung because Hayley Rosenblum, Queen Of Crowd Liaisons and longtime member of my office, was furiously scanning Twitter for good couchsurfing offers while I was on stage, stuck in a conjoined twin dress with Jason Webley. Hayley, you’re a constant godsend.

My assistant, SuperKate Slepicka, was and is an indispensable part of my life and of this writing process. And is, as I write, double-checking the list of people who test-read this book and sending me reminder emails. SuperKate, I cannot thank you enough for being the ongoing, unshakeable, and unsung hero of my daily existence.

Eric Sussman started as a Dresden Dolls intern, became our tour manager, and now sits at the helm of the ship, steering and managing the rough and troubled waters of my whole, crazy business. He helped with this book enormously not just by reminding me (three times, in some cases) how much this-and-that Kickstarter package cost, but by holding down the fort and minding the shop while I Dropped Off The Face Of The Earth to write. Fist to chest, Eric.

And last but not least, Sean Francis has been with me longer than anybody. He has been my megaphone, my blog editor, my brain champion since the very beginning, my soul brother in constant, late-night, why-the-fuck-not ideas. Sean, I have no words. You know me like nobody else.

I’d like to thank everybody who backed the Kickstarter. Without you, this book may not ever have existed… or not quite like this.

I asked for help on Twitter (and on my blog, and on Facebook) relentlessly while writing every draft of this book. If you were there, you saw.

If I could list the number of Twitter, blog, and Facebook commenters that contributed to this book, even just for a word (I often went to Twitter as a hive-thesaurus, looking for a way to describe a concept), it would probably cover ten pages. I also went to the blog with questions and discussions that I sometimes used in the book, but more importantly, you guys inspired my brain and showed me patterns, presented great arguments, and went on this whole philosophical ride with me. Again, if you were there, you know who you are. To all of you on my blog and feeds, day in and day out, thank you. ((((((((((()))))))))). <3. no, <4. and for good measure, ))<>((.

David Shaw rescued us a few times with last-minute technical support. Thank you, David.

I don’t like to write in quiet places. I like to be around people. I started writing this book in a bar and finished it in a café. At this moment, I’m sitting at a wooden table in the McNally Jackson bookstore in New York City, nursing a cortado. I consumed a cubic-house worth of espresso and wine while writing this book, and darkened the corners of dozens of establishments, and I’d very much like to thank the ones I darkened frequently. In Melbourne: Arcadia, Grub Food Van, Atomica (who got an A+ for music selection, causing me to often dance while writing), Polly, Vegie Bar, 1880, Southpaw, Storm in a Teacup, and Thousand Pound Bend. In San Diego, where I traveled twice to work with Jamy The Book Doula, we owe thanks to Better Buzz and even greater thanks to the Hotel del Coronado, who saw me asking for crash space in the area and raised their hands, giving me the most opulent surf of all time, plus nice corners to write in. In NYC, many hours were spent in Cafe Gitane in SoHo, and many hours were spent here in McNally Jackson. And in Cambridge, there is only beloved Cafe Pamplona. Get the white gazpacho. It’s incredible, it has grapes in it. (Unless it’s winter; get the garlic soup.)

My housemates at the Cloud Club: Lee Barron our hermit-y captain, Michael Pope, Cassandra Long, Tristan Allen, Steve Martin (no, not that Steve Martin), Mali Sastri, Vessela Stoyanova, and Nate Greenslit—I really love all of you. Thank you for being my Art Family. And long live the Mystery Aesthetic.

Right as I was about to leave for Australia to work on the book, I walked into Trident, an independent bookstore in Boston, to use their bathroom. They’d laid Daring Greatly by Brené Brown out on the staff picks table. I’d seen her TED talk about vulnerability and loved it, so I picked up the book, figuring I’d probably have no time to read it. I toted it along to Australia, started reading it a few weeks into my own writing, and was completely shocked to see that she’d basically written my book for me—except from an academic perspective. When I got to the part where she quoted The Velveteen Rabbit , I gave up. I sent a text to my editor and literary agents saying BRENÉ BROWN HAS RUINED MY LIFE. SHE ALREADY WROTE MY BOOK. AND SHE STOLE MY RABBIT. But then I realized I should just take Rabbits and make Rabbitade. I invited her to write the foreword. Brené, thank you so, so very much. The work and research you are doing is changing the world.

On that note, this book would not have happened the way it did without TED. I’d like to thank Thomas Dolby for helping get my foot in the door for the original gig, and Bill Bragin, music connector extraordinaire, for advocating on my behalf. And I’d like to thank Chris Anderson, Mr. TED, who pushed me to say more than I wanted to say, but that made everything work. All the other incredibly inspiring friends, writers, and thinkers I’ve discovered and/or befriended—especially Jill Bolte-Taylor, Danny Hillis, Shane Koyczan, JR, Aimee Mullins, Dan Pallotta, Ron Finley, and Amy Cuddy—have all influenced and/or encouraged this book. I feel really lucky to have stumbled into this world. So thank you, Chris, and everyone working at TED, for everything you’re doing.

I owe a huge amount of thanks to everybody who’s ever hosted me—and the general list is too long for this book—but I’d like to thank a select few people who have gone above and beyond, or have given me a home and safe harbor while I was working on this book in particular. Danny and Pati Hillis not only opened their doors to me, but to my extended staff and friends, and are couch-hosts of the highest caliber (but also, we traded when Danny decided to move into OUR house for a while, so it’s a fair trade all the way). Felix and Michelle popped into my life by answering a Twitter couch-call for a single night and I don’t think any of us could have predicted that I’d be staying in their apartment for an entire week a few years later, writing about that very experience while listening to their Philip Glass vinyl collection on repeat. Thank you, guys. Thanks to Malcolm and Elaine for the Brighton crash space, the company, and the stories. The Cunningham/Siggs in Edinburgh have become a second family, as have John and Judith Clute in London. Kyle Cassidy, thanks for being as generous as you are with your house and your art. Thanks to Pascaline Lepeltier for giving copious amounts of wine and company to so many of us. Lance Horne, you’ve inspired pieces of this book and hosted parts of its creation in your kibbutz. Thank you.