David Baldacci: How to Write Books That Actually Sell

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David Baldacci, one of the most prolific writers in the world, joins us on the show today. He has written 53 novels and seven children’s books, publishes two novels every year, and has sold more than 200 million copies worldwide.

How does he craft great stories, develop compelling characters, and build tension? How does he approach the business of publishing? Drawing from his background as a lawyer and his time in boardrooms worldwide, what strategies does he employ to ensure his books sell and are read? This conversation explores those very questions.

Transcript

0:40 Starting with ‘The Big Pop’
3:39 Should you outline your book?
6:03 Give characters baggage
9:44 Twists aren’t enough
13:49 Long dialogue is lazy
21:36 Make the stakes personal
26:23 A scene needs two purposes
30:31 Where ideas come from
36:28 Writing 53 novels
41:19 Go where the readers are
43:24 Baldacci’s money rule
47:54 How book deals really work
53:34 Finding a good premise
59:22 Why lawyers become writers
1:05:58 Finding the right details
1:10:07 Lessons from screenplays
1:13:18 Character > plot
1:17:29 Write what excites you
1:20:49 Slow down the big moments
1:22:54 Children’s books
1:27:05 Skip the self-help books

David Perell (00:40)

Let’s begin with the concept of “the big pop.” What is it, and how do you approach it?

David Baldacci (00:40-02:44)

When I start a story, I want to ensure I have control over it, not the reader. The way I achieve this is by making it clear to the reader that any preconceptions they form within the first few pages will be completely wrong. They may think they have a good idea of what’s coming, but they won’t even be close.

To do this, I open a scene with significant ambiguity, pointing in multiple directions. Then, I blow readers out of the water by choosing the least likely path.

For example, in an Amos Decker book, he was investigating a murder scene with a dead body on the first floor and another on the second. Early on, readers would assume two things: first, that he’s looking for a single killer, and second, that both murders are connected. These assumptions are not grounded in fact.

The “big pop” occurs when readers quickly realize the deaths are unrelated, involving two separate killers with different motivations. Once they understand this, they think, “I was totally wrong. I need to sit back, let this story unfold, and stop forming preconceptions.” That’s when I, as the writer, regain control.

Another example involves a character walking down the street, observing two people approaching each other. One person seems suspicious. My character thinks this individual is about to do something wrong. As the two get closer, the person my character suspected turns out to be the victim.

This is another method because the reader, viewing the scene through my character’s point of view, also suspects the “hinky” character. When they realize they are entirely mistaken, it allows me to tell the reader, “You won’t figure this out. You don’t know where this is going. So sit back, relax, stop second-guessing me, and enjoy the ride.”

David Perell (02:44-02:50)

Why do you, as the writer, want to be in control? I’m trying to imagine what it would look like for the reader to be in control.

David Baldacci (02:51-03:39)

People who read many mysteries and thrillers often recognize plot devices. There are only so many ways to construct a plot, with misdirections and red herrings. Sometimes, as a writer, you can inadvertently telegraph these elements, leading a reader to think, “That seems familiar; I think I know where this arc is going.” I do the same when watching television shows and movies.

To counteract this, you must introduce elements that expose a reader’s vulnerability to predictability. They might go one layer deep, but you’ve already gone three layers, and they’ve missed the other two, rendering their assumptions incorrect.

I love to cajole readers into making early assumptions about the plot. When those assumptions prove wrong, that’s when I truly capture their full, undivided attention.

David Perell (03:39-03:56)

As you think about improving your craft, did you build a bank of story archetypes to draw from? Or was your approach more intuitive, stemming from reading widely and studying the greats?

David Baldacci (03:56-05:00)

It’s much more intuitive. I don’t plot anything out; I don’t use lengthy outlines. I’ve tried them, but they never worked. I always discard them, wondering why I wasted weeks on them.

I prefer writing “in the trenches,” meaning I write when the words truly count. Using an outline is like Tom Brady in practice: he goes through the motions without the threat of being tackled. He’s not as sharp because he doesn’t have to be. In a game, opponents are trying to kill him, so he must see the whole field. Everything slows down, and he has to be at the top of his game.

As a writer, I’m at the top of my game when I’m actually writing the scenes that matter. I have to make critical decisions for the character in that exact moment. There’s no “kicking the can down the road” as you can in an outline, where you might think, “I haven’t fully figured this out, but I’ll resolve it later.”

In the story itself, there is no “later.” Your character is waiting, asking, “Now what? Tell me what I’m supposed to do.” When I’m immersed in the moment like that, my synapses fire better. I see the entire field of possibilities and make better choices.

David Perell (05:00-05:14)

You’re writing page one, page two, page three, and so on. At every point, you’re pushing the horizon further, writing the next step and continuing onward.

David Baldacci (05:14-06:02)

I’m very linear in that respect; I don’t jump around. I don’t write the ending and then try to insert everything that came before it. I take my first step and keep going.

When you reach the end, you go back, and that’s where a lot of the heavy lifting occurs: in the editing process. This involves moving things around, identifying what doesn’t work, what’s out of place, what needs to be added, and what needs to be deleted. Often, the priority is deletion, as first drafts tend to be overwritten.

This is my process, one I’ve developed over the years. If outlining works for you, outline. If you don’t like to outline, then don’t. There’s no set template or formula for this. The best method for you is whatever works best for that particular story in the moment, whether it’s an outline, an organic approach, or something in between.

David Perell (06:03-06:20)

How do you develop a character, and how do you know when it’s going well? Do you feel like you’re truly getting to know them, understanding their complexities and contradictions? What sensations tell you if it’s progressing positively or negatively?

David Baldacci (06:20-08:07)

My series characters all carry baggage unrelated to the novel’s immediate plot. For example, my first series featured Sean King and Michelle Maxwell, two ex-Secret Service agents. They were both dismissed due to professional errors and had to restart their lives, burdened by failed careers.

Amos Decker, another character, died on the football field and suffered brain trauma. He emerged with hyperthymesia and synesthesia. He had lost his family in a tragedy related to his work, which left him with terrible guilt. His personality changed after the brain trauma; though still a huge man, he was a totally different person. He had to deal with all this while trying to be a detective.

Atlee Pine, an FBI agent, carries the trauma of her twin sister’s kidnapping at age six. She has no idea what happened to her sister. This deeply personal history is one reason she became an FBI agent; she wanted to fight for justice, but that drive was already rooted in her past.

In a series, you must consider more than just the immediate plot of a particular novel. You need to think about the emotional layers you will unpeel book after book. That’s where this “baggage” comes in. For Atlee Pine, across four books in her series, each installment revealed a little more about her sister’s disappearance and its profound effect on Atlee.

Readers want a plot that unwinds to a clear resolution, but they also want to see characters evolve. They want to witness their suffering, their redemption, and their fight to return to a normal life, whatever that may entail. It’s a two-layered dynamic. A character shouldn’t just be a robot moving through the plot; they should be a person who grows and changes during the course of the story you’ve created for them.

David Perell (08:07-08:31)

How do you differentiate between character types? You have primary characters, whose role is continuous, and then secondary characters. I often think of them as tools. For example, in a living room, the chairs and couch are primary characters; they’re always in use. A screwdriver, however, is a secondary character. You use it for a specific purpose, then it goes back to the shed until it’s needed again.

David Baldacci (08:31-08:35)

The peripheral characters are important, much like NPCs in a video game.

David Perell (08:35-08:35)

Right.

David Baldacci (08:36-09:44)

They are important, and you must build a team around them. My Camel Club series, for instance, had multiple members. Each was primary in certain moments but took on more peripheral, secondary roles at other points in the story. This flexibility is crucial to keep in mind.

Just because a character serves one or two purposes throughout a novel doesn’t mean they should be given short shrift. It’s not enough to simply describe their appearance or provide a brief background. You have multiple opportunities to deepen any character, whether primary, secondary, or even peripheral.

I believe that the more you develop all the characters, to a certain extent, the more it enhances the entire feel of the novel itself. Readers come away feeling they truly understood everyone, even the minor players. This creates a deeper, more forceful read.

While writing, I constantly think about the experience from a reader’s perspective. What works for me as a reader? I enjoy stories and books, but it’s essential to always consider how the reader will react to the words I put on paper. That fact cannot be overlooked.

David Perell (09:44-09:59)

I picture your writing as a hockey offense, masterful in misdirection, blocking the goalie. Later, when reviewing an instant replay, a reader might discern how the play unfolded. But in the moment, it feels like magic, full of clever misdirection.

David Baldacci (09:59-12:18)

Stu, misdirection, twists, turns, and red herrings are all part of the genre I write in. However, you can’t make it solely about the twist. Some writers do, and I wish them well, but I aim for something more.

I want readers to finish a book thinking, “I never saw that coming,” but also reflecting on the character’s evolution. Characters should emerge either more broken, healed, or somewhere in between. There must be an effect. That’s why they’re called character arcs; they represent a significant change in a character throughout the novel.

A single complication in life can permeate one’s entire soul, manifesting in various ways. Perhaps you chose a career that wasn’t right because you felt undeserving, or you believed you were a loser because your mother didn’t deem you worthy of her time.

While I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist, I understand human nature enough to know that these influences make their way through the mind in unpredictable ways. You could emerge as someone who chooses to operate outside the law, believing the system doesn’t work for them anyway, so why bother? Alternatively, you might become someone dedicated to upholding the law, correcting injustices you felt were committed against you.

This is what makes human nature so fascinating; everyone has a unique perspective and point of view. People often carry “baggage” from their background, a term I like to use. This baggage can manifest in countless, unexpected ways, yet still make perfect sense. We have no idea how the human mind truly works. If artificial intelligence is meant to replace it, how can we replace something we don’t even fully understand?

That’s the beauty of writing stories like this: you can take a character anywhere. You must, however, make it plausible and provide clear motivation. My rule of thumb is that if a character performs an incredible act—good, bad, or in between—their motivation must match the magnitude of that action. Otherwise, readers will find it unbelievable. You must match the magnitude of both the action and its underlying reason.

David Perell (12:19-13:49)

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How do you think about revealing character, perhaps starting with dialogue? How do you use dialogue as a tool to reveal who someone is and what they stand for?

David Baldacci (13:49-16:18)

Crafting Amos Decker was a challenge for me because of the way his brain functioned. He was basically on the spectrum and did not like to socialize. He had been a gregarious, outgoing football player, but his brain trauma changed everything. He became a man of very few words. When he spoke, however, his words mattered.

I dislike lengthy dialogue; it is lazy writing. Authors try to put into words what they should be able to convey through other elements of storytelling, whether action, interior monologue, or something else. People do not simply sit and give speeches. Dialogue must move the action forward or reveal something about a character.

Amos Decker is a man of few words, but when he speaks, his words are carefully chosen and meaningful, unlike someone who can talk for half an hour and say nothing. It is like the Gettysburg Address, which is 277 words long. The person who spoke before Lincoln at Gettysburg spoke for two hours. Nobody remembers who he was or what he said. Everyone remembers the Gettysburg Address because every word earned its place.

I once adapted one of my books for a feature film. Superstorm Sandy hit, and we lost two days of filming we could not get back. One scene was set in a courthouse, and we could not reschedule because it was a functioning courthouse. The day we had scheduled, the storm hit, and there were no do-overs.

I suddenly had a hole in the plot. I was sitting outside a farmyard, with roosters and chickens around me, at a wooden table with my laptop. An Academy Award-winning actress was inside a small farmhouse, in full costume, with cinematographers ready to roll as soon as I finished the dialogue she was supposed to deliver.

I was crafting the dialogue, and everyone was waiting for this page. At first, I thought, “She’s going to say all this stuff.” But then I sat back, looked at her through the window, and realized I had an incredible actor on my hands. I cut everything out except one line of dialogue, allowing her to do what she does best.

You can achieve the same effect in a novel, even with a non-living character, if you have built that character precisely so readers understand who they are and what they stand for. One line of dialogue can do the work of ten. I have reached a point in my career where if I used to write something in a hundred words, I now do my very best to write it in ten because a hundred words is simply lazy writing.

David Perell (16:18-16:38)

You write books that demand to be read, not skimmed, yet you aim for conciseness. How do you reconcile those two things?

David Baldacci (16:39-17:48)

I want people to understand that they skim my books at their peril. They will miss crucial information. Do not complain to me that you did not see something coming; first, because you were not supposed to, and second, because you did not read every word. If a word is on the page in one of my books, it is there for a reason. If you choose to skip over it, you do so at your own peril. That is your decision, not mine.

Even to this day, people tell me it must get easier to write books since I have written so many. I tell them it gets harder because I know how good it can be if I try a little bit harder. If I could have written that scene a little tighter, if I could have given that character fewer beats but more substance in the remaining ones, it would have been so much better. That is what drives me.

Having done this for most of my life, I know you never truly master it. That is why they call us apprentices. But you can get better with every book, and that is what I strive to do. When I look back at many of my earlier books today, I tell myself I would have edited them much more aggressively, and they would have been shorter.

David Perell (17:50-18:07)

You mentioned that you want to know who your characters are and what they stand for. Is that something you aim for with every character, so if we went down a list, we would know their core principles?

David Baldacci (18:07-19:30)

Yes, particularly if you are asking a character to play a role that people recognize and understand. Whether it is an FBI agent, a Secret Service agent, someone in the intelligence field, or just a man off the street, like a businessman whose life was turned upside down.

The key for me is to have core principles and beliefs, but with flexibility. When you guide a character through a novel, you must understand that human beings in such situations need the latitude to change. If you do not allow that latitude, a round peg is inserted into a square hole, and nothing makes sense.

You have to allow the reader to see that change because they will notice if a character starts one way and ends another without understanding the journey. The story should allow the reader to say, “I see how they got there.” They might wonder, “Would I have made that same decision?” Perhaps not, but they understand why that decision at that point in the story is plausible. Plausibility is the only thing I am bound by.

If the reader believes a decision could plausibly have been made by someone in that situation, they will continue with the story. You do not want them to conclude, “I have no idea how that person got there, and because of that, I am just not enjoying the story anymore.”

David Perell (19:30-20:12)

I remember when I had Richard Powers on the show, I asked him, “What do you do to bring a character to life?”

He often creates a character with two values. For example, justice and loyalty. Both are good values. To truly reveal that character, you push them to the wall and make them choose between those values.

Imagine you have to be loyal to your father, but he’s committed a crime. You’re then put in a situation where you have to choose. This inherently brings a character to life and makes a story dramatic.

David Baldacci (20:12-21:35)

When a character faces a life-altering decision for themselves or others, it’s an excellent way to develop them. While they might value both loyalty and justice, when those values compete, the person’s core principle is revealed. One will invariably outweigh the other, demonstrating their true core principle.

In such a situation, some might argue that loyalty overrides justice. If I were writing a Godfather novel, it might take that path. For some, loyalty is justice.

There are many ways to approach writing a book. You must always have conflict, opportunities for decisions, and clear consequences and stakes. Without these elements, a character’s decision lacks significance. However, if a decision leads to severe consequences, forcing accountability and suffering, the character becomes real on the page. That’s the goal.

David Perell (21:36-21:59)

Can you tell me more about the concept of stakes? I understand how you create stakes with a clear, immediate threat, like a meteor approaching in an hour, as seen with Jack Bauer in 24. Those stakes are almost ready-made.

But what about more subtle stakes? How do they manifest in something like family drama, or situations that are less grand and dramatic?

David Baldacci (21:59-23:55)

In the first book of the Walter Nash series, Walter Nash is a businessman. He’s not a police officer or an FBI agent; he has no special skills like that. I often say he’s never lifted a weight in his life or fired a gun in anger. Yet he’s excellent at business and has achieved the American dream. The American dream is to work hard, get a good education, put in the time, and become financially successful. That’s what we’ve always been told in this country.

Walter did all that. Then one night, after his father died and he was dismissed by one of his father’s Vietnam veteran buddies at the funeral, he experienced a traumatic event. An FBI agent emerges from the darkness, offering him a Faustian choice.

He tells Walter, “You have a great life, you’ve made a lot of money, and you have a nice family in a nice house. But the company you’ve worked for all these years is actually a criminal organization.” Here’s your choice: either work with us to bring them down and lose everything, or don’t work with us and still lose everything. Those are your options, and those are the stakes.

This situation is thematic because it reflects our modern world. Many people spend their careers educating themselves in coding or computer science, only to be told they’re superfluous. Their education no longer matters because a software platform can do what they used to do. And that platform often learned by stealing their work. How do they feel about that?

It’s thematic because they achieved the American dream, did everything they were told, and built a good life, only to have it ripped apart through no fault of their own. That’s why I structured the Walter Nash series this way: he achieved the American dream, and then it was taken away.

David Perell (23:55-23:59)

What is it about family themes that you keep coming back to?

David Baldacci (24:00-25:40)

You pick your friends, but you don’t pick your family. So, you’re in it for the long haul, warts and all. All families are dysfunctional on one level or another; it’s not just some.

As a writer, I recall my childhood, teenage years, and early adult years. My relationships with parents and siblings were granular but incredibly impactful. You’re like a fresh sheet of paper. The experiences that hit you early on are the most memorable because the page was blank. You lived with those experiences for years.

As you get older, more experiences are added, but those first 18 to 20 years largely define who you are. I love writing about that, and I enjoy writing about families because they are truly the most impactful.

I write about siblings constantly, whether it’s the John Puller series with his brother or Atlee Pine with her sister, because those relationships truly matter. Growing up, the relationships and dynamics with my siblings were very impactful in my life. I enjoy replaying that in fiction because, instinctively, when you write about such themes, readers connect. They think, “I get that. I had a brother or sisters just like that, or my parents were like that.”

When you achieve that connectivity with a reader through the story’s themes, you’ll have them until the final page.

David Perell (25:40-25:50)

You mentioned siblings, and I immediately thought of my sister. There’s no one in the world I adore more than her, yet I’ve fought with her more than every other person combined.

David Baldacci (25:51-25:59)

Caring and loving are very deep emotions that have two edges to them. It’s often that way.

David Perell (26:00-26:10)

That’s what makes it so relevant: it’s universal, vast, and profoundly meaningful to the things we value most.

David Baldacci (26:10-26:23)

It is. It becomes instinctual, intuitive. We’ve all experienced it; it’s imprinted into our DNA. Nobody forgets the relationships they had growing up with their family.

David Perell (26:23-26:25)

What is the role of a scene?

David Baldacci (26:26-26:37)

When I was writing screenplays, every producer and director I worked with told me that if a scene doesn’t have at least two purposes, it shouldn’t be in the movie.

David Perell (26:37-26:38)

Two purposes.

David Baldacci (26:38-27:30)

Two purposes. Movies cost a lot of money to make, so if you only have one reason per scene, it’s not good enough. While I don’t apply that rule entirely to novel writing, I certainly don’t write gratuitous scenes. I don’t have the time to include anything that doesn’t matter.

If a scene, or even a line of dialogue, doesn’t advance the plot, flesh out a character, or give the reader necessary information, you must ask yourself why it’s there. Is it there because you did a lot of research and are loath to cut it out? That’s the wrong reason.

Research is important for a book, but you have to leave 99% of it out. Otherwise, you’re writing a textbook. Nobody wants to read a textbook; they just flip past all the boring parts.

David Baldacci (27:31-28:28)

Scenes are the building blocks of any novel, but they must have connectivity and a reason for being there. Sometimes, when editing, I’ve rearranged the order of scenes because they made more sense than my original sequence. Once you have the whole novel in hand, the puzzle pieces often fall differently.

You might realize that if A went before B, or if C went before A, it would create a better effect. It’s about micro-timing. Releasing information a few beats too soon, rather than holding onto it a little longer, can impact the reader, the story, and the characters. Even a page’s difference in what’s revealed can have an enormous impact on the overall narrative.

David Perell (28:29-28:41)

Do you have a taxonomy of scenes? As you write or look at a book, do you consider different kinds of scenes and potential directions for them?

David Baldacci (28:41-29:44)

All the time. When I’m nearing the end of a novel but haven’t figured out exactly what I want to do, I write what’s called a “pen ending”—P.I.N. If the deadline is tight, I’ll send the manuscript to my publisher, explaining it’s a pen ending so they know it might not be the actual conclusion.

Then, in my mind, I’ll consider four or five different scenarios, all plausible based on what I’ve already built. I decide which one is right, or if an amalgamation of bits and pieces from those scenarios will create the finale I truly want.

Sometimes, you get too close to the work, especially nearing the end of a novel. You’re in a tunnel, focused on finishing, but you don’t have everything figured out. So, I submit the pen ending, and while they’re reading it, I work on something else. Meanwhile, a part of my brain continues to hammer away at that ending.

David Perell (29:44-29:48)

When you say “work on something else,” do you mean the next book, or something like chopping wood in the backyard?

David Baldacci (29:48-30:29)

It could be both. I might go for a walk or work on the next book—anything that totally disassociates me from the problem. My subconscious, however, is always working on it. I’ve solved more plot problems and pen endings in the shower than anywhere else. I love the waterfall on my head. I might be in there five minutes, and then, bang, it’s done. I walk out with a big smile.

You just have to do that sometimes. When you get too close, your vision becomes obscured. Having a little buffer away from it all, suddenly, things start to slide into place. Then you ask yourself, “Why in the world didn’t I think of that before? It’s so obvious!”

David Perell (30:31-30:36)

You’ve done extensive research: shooting guns, traveling to the places you’re writing about.

David Baldacci (30:37-30:59)

It’s important. I know many writers use research assistants, but when I was a lawyer, I always interviewed my witnesses face-to-face, never over the phone. Body language counted for a lot with me. Everyone lies to lawyers—opposing clients, other lawyers, everyone. I just assumed everyone was lying to me.

David Perell (30:59-31:00)

You were a lawyer for ten years?

David Baldacci (31:00-32:36)

Everyone has lied to me. You have to assume that and work backward. If someone tells you the truth, I appreciate it.

I go to places and conceive of scenes and plot devices because I’m inspired by my surroundings. I can’t get that same insight through someone else’s interpretation. If I send someone else to a location to observe, they will return with their own perspective, highlighting what they deem important. This could be entirely different from what I would find significant.

If I look at a scene, and everyone else in the room looks at that same scene, we will all come away with multiple different versions of what we’re seeing, what’s important, and what draws our eye. So, I prefer to do it myself.

I divide my research into hardware and software. The hardware involves activities like jumping off parachute towers, participating in army functional fitness training, or going on ride-alongs with police officers in crime areas.

The software aspect is when I sit down and talk to people who perform these jobs, away from the equipment and daily demands. For instance, if you’re 18 years old in the middle of a war in Iraq, why would you volunteer for the army, knowing you won’t stay stateside? You’ll receive basic training, maybe some specialized training, and then be on a plane directly into combat, facing potential death. I want to understand that motivation. This information allows me to build characters that are fuller, more robust, and more honest.

David Perell (32:37-32:48)

Looking at that scene, I’m curious what you notice and how you approach the process of noticing in general.

David Baldacci (32:48-33:44)

Looking out this window, I immediately thought of Emily Dickinson in Amherst, gazing from her small window onto the street, drawing all her inspiration from it. It must have been a street very much like this one, with its green spaces, old brick, and a tree.

She was known as “the myth” in Amherst and always dressed in white. Nobody even knew she was a poet until after her death. She sat at a small window with her modest desk, watching the world go by, and wrote some of the greatest poetry ever created on a very quiet street.

You wonder: first, she must have been an incredible observer; second, she possessed an amazing imagination; and third, she was able to combine those two elements to write inspired poetry. I have no talent for writing poetry, but that’s what I imagine she would have seen, and that is inspiring to me. Another person, however, might look at it and say the brick needs repointing.

David Perell (33:48-34:04)

Do you consciously practice noticing? Do you have a process for reflecting on observations, like journaling, or is it simply an innate way you operate? And do the things you notice simply appear on the page when you write?

David Baldacci (34:04-34:40)

It’s a little bit of both. If I’m out walking and see something particularly interesting, I’ll remember it.

I keep a black spiral notebook for every writing project. I love jotting down everything related to the particular story I’m working on. I’ll jot down my thoughts about it, not necessarily verbatim, but rather my feelings about what I observed. This takes it to another level, progressing from step A to B or C, instead of just staying at A.

When people ask where I get my ideas, I tell them I wake up every day and walk out the door.

David Perell (34:40-34:42)

You live somewhere rural or in a…

David Baldacci (34:42-36:27)

I live in a suburb, but it feels rural. I’m about 30 minutes outside of Washington, D.C., but our area feels like farmland. I’ve gotten ideas just by watching two people talk, or by observing a guy getting on a bus with a package.

Then the questions emerge: Where is the bus going? What’s in the package? I can then fictionally answer those, and suddenly, I have an idea for a story. For me, writing stories is very much about answering questions that haven’t been answered yet.

I wrote a book called The 620 Man, which was based on the Pandora and Panama Papers, detailing $30 trillion of dark money circulating globally. The first set of papers proved this phenomenon was occurring, while the second revealed that kings, dictators, oligarchs, and similar figures possessed this money. The unanswered question was: What do you do with $30 trillion?

So I wrote The 620 Man. My premise was that if I had that much money, I wouldn’t buy a ninth yacht or a tenth jet. Instead, I would use it to acquire power and influence people at every level, from the lowest to the highest, to further tip the world in my favor.

I mentioned the journalistic consortium that produced those papers in the first 620 Man book. The head of the consortium, based in Australia, emailed me after reading it. He said he fell out of bed in disbelief that I had mentioned them and confirmed I was “spot on.” He then asked, “Why do you think school board elections are now costing $10 million? It’s because the dark money is everywhere.” I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but this is important. That book sought to answer the question: What do you do with $30 trillion?

David Perell (36:28-36:45)

What is your self-conception? We’ve discussed your logical side. Then there’s the artistic Emily Dickinson aspect—the writer and reader in you who simply observes. Finally, there’s the lawyer in you. How much do you consider yourself an artist, a businessman, or something else entirely?

David Baldacci (36:46-37:53)

I walk around not necessarily conflicted, but I’m always in competition in my head. What part am I playing today? Am I the business person, the lawyer, or the dreamy artist, thinking of plots and characters?

I’ve reached a point where, while not compartmentalization, I know when to activate one part of my personality and when to let another recede. For example, I had a meeting with my publishing team today. In that meeting, I was the writer-business person, reviewing past book performance, current trends, and strategizing how to get more people to read them—and to read in general. That was my role at that time.

However, when I’m in my office, conceiving stories and developing my books, that business-oriented character fades away. The dreamy, artistic person emerges, the one who might see Emily Dickinson’s house and draw inspiration. Every person plays various roles in their lives, sometimes shifting from moment to moment, depending on the immediate need.

David Perell (37:53-38:23)

One thing that truly stood out to me when learning about your process, and while preparing for this interview, was your discipline—that ‘got to get this done’ mentality. Early in your career, you wrote from 10 PM to 2 AM every single night.

Equally striking is how much writing you do away from the keyboard, developing characters and plots. This means that when you finally sit down to write, you’re ready. You have a full tank of ideas, allowing you to produce material you’ve already thoroughly considered.

David Baldacci (38:23-41:18)

I am. I’m the kind of writer who, upon finishing a book, becomes absolutely miserable if I don’t have another story to work on. Many of my bestselling writer friends, when they finish a book, exclaim, “Yes! I’m taking six months off to have fun!”

For me, the drive, the ‘belly fire,’ is always centered on what the next story will be. If I don’t have one to work on, I feel lost, like I’m in a vacuum in space.

I believe I’m so prolific because I simply never turn it off. I can’t. Wherever I go, I’m thinking about ideas, and I can’t wait to get back to put them down on paper, one way or another.

I write everywhere. I have hotel notepads from every hotel I’ve ever stayed in because I’m constantly pulling them out and jotting down notes.

I even wrote at George H.W. Bush’s funeral after he passed away. My wife and I had become friends with the Bush family through our work in literacy. Mrs. Bush had a literacy foundation, and we formed one as well. Our friendship wasn’t based on politics; it was about good human beings trying to get more people to read.

I went to his funeral at the National Cathedral in D.C. Due to security, we had to arrive about four hours before the service, going through metal detectors and various checks. While waiting, I took out my pen and, using the margins of the program, wrote a couple of chapters for the book I was working on. The ideas were in my head, and I needed to get them out.

I love putting ideas down on paper; it’s what invigorates me. Even when I was a lawyer, the only arrows in my quiver were words.

I recently gave the commencement speech at the University of Virginia School of Law, where I graduated 40 years ago. I emphasized to the graduating class that words matter, sharing experiences where the choice of a single word could turn a case around. That’s how powerful words can be.

Words are powerful when they evoke a visceral reaction in the reader. If they do, then mission accomplished, because words possess that capability.

Words have impact. I don’t think Abraham Lincoln ever truly said to Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, “So you’re the little lady who started this great war.” That quote is likely apocryphal. However, he could have said it because words truly are that powerful.

There are many examples of great books that have started movements, like Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. When people read such works and form a visceral connection, it proves that bombs can eliminate mountains, but books can move them. I’d rather move mountains than eliminate them.

David Perell (41:19-41:53)

Reflecting on two and a half years of doing this podcast, one significant change in my perspective is a deep admiration for writers who can reach an absolutely mass audience. For instance, talking to Lee Child and grasping how many millions of books he’s sold truly astonished me.

You mentioned earlier your discussions at Grand Central Publishing about reaching more readers. I’m curious: how do you approach this, from the writing itself to marketing and distribution? What are your strategies?

David Baldacci (41:53-42:17)

We must analyze the current marketplace, anticipate its evolution, and consider emerging technologies. We also need to identify where potential readers are today. For example, we’re doing a lot more work with Spotify. Audio downloads are huge right now, and they require an electronic device. That’s a significant market we’re all focusing on.

David Perell (42:17-42:19)

Would that change how you actually write?

David Baldacci (42:19-43:24)

It would not change how you write; it changes how they market the books. I’m always looking for whether a good story will sell. You just have to find the readers wherever they might be.

If readers no longer pick up hardcover or softcover books, preferring to listen to audiobooks or read ebooks, then you must reach them in their preferred space. You cannot force them to read in a format they do not want. A lot of the marketing effort is dedicated to this.

Publishers must discover where those readers are, what marketing speaks to them, and then deliver the book in whatever format they need, as efficiently as possible. They also need to encourage readers to pick up the next title. That was largely what the meeting was about.

Things have become much more complicated. Twenty years ago, nobody used the word “metadata” because no one knew what it meant. Now, everyone uses that term, and there are many other factors to consider. When I started, there were no ebooks; audiobooks were on CDs. That entire landscape has changed completely. Businesses evolve, and you must evolve with them.

David Perell (43:24-43:47)

What advice would you offer writers regarding finances? While it doesn’t appear to be your top priority, you’ve clearly achieved significant financial success. You’re known as a tough negotiator when it comes to royalty rights. Clearly, you value it, though it doesn’t seem to be the ultimate goal. What is your relationship with money as an author?

David Baldacci (43:48-46:33)

It all comes down to fairness. I spent ten years building a fan base. I traveled everywhere, even when not on tour, handling my own publicity and marketing. If people wanted me to speak, I went. By consistently building my fan base and writing numerous books, I reached a point where publishers were making a lot of money from my work.

Considering the distribution, I have a simple mantra: no one should make more money from a book than the person who wrote it. No one. If you adhere to that, you’re in a good position. Unfortunately, for many writers in this country, the opposite is true: the publisher takes the lion’s share, and the author does not.

Once I had a fan base and leverage, I approached contract negotiations differently. I told them we would no longer focus solely on traditional royalties. Instead, we would be partners: they would get a 30% return on their investment, and I would get the rest. I challenged them: if they could find any other venture offering a virtually guaranteed 30% return on their money, they should go for it. They agreed to the deal.

This isn’t to say they aren’t also making a lot of money. Everyone is happy; I am happy and productive, and they are receiving all the books they need from me. We are building a strong business together, but the distribution, in my opinion, is far more equitable. They have hundreds or thousands of authors; I only have myself. This is my livelihood. If they’re making a very acceptable return on their investment—which is me—and I’m making a very good return on my investment—which is also me—then we both walk away happy.

I’ve taught an online masterclass discussing the business aspect of publishing. You don’t have to hyper-focus on it, but you must be aware of its presence. When you go into meetings, you should know as much, if not more, than your agent or whoever is negotiating your deal. This allows you to ask intelligent questions and avoid unpleasant surprises years later, like, “Why am I not in those stores anymore? Why are my sales declining? Why are my royalties going down? Why am I not making as much money?”

It’s often because you’ve been solely focused on writing the books and ignoring everything else. Writing the books is the most important thing you will do. The second most important is understanding how the business works for you—or against you. I know many writers whose good careers ended because they took their eye off that ball.

David Perell (46:34-46:37)

What specific mistakes did those writers make?

David Baldacci (46:37-47:54)

They don’t hold their publishers’ feet to the fire, asking questions like, “Why hasn’t your marketing plan changed in the last ten years? Why am I no longer in the outlets I used to be in?” They don’t ask these questions because they don’t know to ask them. They might also feel marketed incorrectly, saying, “You’re marketing me as this when I believe I’m really that.” Or they might question, “Why are you releasing my book at this time of year when it would be better suited for another?”

For instance, if you want to release during the Christmas season, you need to be a heavy hitter with a large fan base, or you’ll be overshadowed by the major releases. Perhaps it’s better for your book’s content to come out in the spring or summer. If your publisher isn’t making sound decisions about these matters, and you don’t know to question them, then negative consequences are inevitable.

It’s not about being overly analytical; you remain a creative person. I’ve heard people say, “I’m a creative person, not a business person.” No, you have to be both if this is your profession. If you want to live a dream state and just write your books for free, and you have a trust fund to cover expenses, that’s fine. But if this is your livelihood, you must wear two hats: content creator and business person. If you don’t do both, you won’t be happy in the long run.

David Perell (47:54-48:21)

What are the core negotiation points? Beyond royalty rights, what are the key vectors? Whenever I enter a new situation, I wonder about the critical points of disagreement—the fault lines I should be aware of. If I can understand these, I can anticipate potential issues. However, when approaching something new, I often don’t know what those fault lines are. There’s so much data that I struggle to prioritize and deprioritize.

David Baldacci (48:21-52:02)

I tend to do multi-book contracts, usually six-book deals. For the last 15 or 16 years, I’ve released two books annually, one in April and one in November. I’ve maintained this schedule for 16 years. A six-book deal, therefore, lasts three years, with two books published each year.

When I negotiate, I first consider if it’s a regular thriller series. If so, it’s a standard six-book deal with the same advance and profit-sharing requirements. However, I also have a hardboiled detective series set in the 1950s, which isn’t strictly a thriller. This type of series is priced differently because its sales projections vary.

This allows me to be inventive with the deal structure. For example, I might accept a smaller upfront payment in exchange for more robust profit-sharing. Perhaps the split isn’t equal; I might receive a larger share because of the lower upfront payment. Publishers might also be hesitant to commit to a six-book deal for such a series.

Then I consider if I want to go book-to-book, or if a two-book or three-book deal makes more sense. I evaluate how that fits into my creative arc and if I’m confident I can deliver the books within the timeframe, say, three books over the next three years.

Compensation, naturally, is determined through negotiation. Royalty rates, for instance, haven’t changed in a long time. Typically, it’s a 15% royalty rate on a hardcover, which effectively means a 30% return for the author.

Here’s why: a $30 retail price book is sold by the publisher to the wholesaler for about $15, or even $14.50. The publisher doesn’t receive the full $30, and neither does anyone else. As a writer, you receive 15% of that $30 retail price, even though the publisher only gets $15. This means your 15% royalty effectively translates to a 30% return on that book, which is acceptable.

The publisher, however, incurs significant expenses for printing, distribution, and other associated costs. Despite expenses, they still retain 70%. While they provide an advance, you must earn that back before receiving any further royalties. This advance could be large, small, or somewhere in between. It’s crucial to understand this financial model.

The problem arises if you’re solely working under that 15% hardcover royalty. In my earlier career, when I only received royalties, I meticulously tracked the revenue generated and the expenses incurred by the publisher. I knew exactly how much profit they made from my books. If I had relied solely on the 15% royalty, I would never have earned back my advance. A publisher could make $30 million from one book, and I wouldn’t see another cent.

Therefore, if I hadn’t pushed back 20 years ago and insisted on a different arrangement, I would have left nine figures on the table. As a lawyer and a business person who negotiated many deals for clients, I couldn’t accept that.

I tell young writers: work tirelessly, build your fan base, and when it’s time to renegotiate, simply state that the standard royalty model no longer works. Explain that you are partners in a business, and you need to be treated as such. While they may not agree to the exact deal I have, it won’t be the old deal either. You’re no longer going to let them make 70% off every book while you get 30%; that’s simply not fair anymore.

I’m not saying every publisher will agree, but they certainly won’t if you never even raise the issue.

David Perell (52:03-52:11)

What is the number one lesson you’ve learned as a business professional, and what’s the most important lesson from your legal background?

David Baldacci (52:11-53:33)

As a business professional, the number one lesson I’ve learned is that no one will care about your career more than you do. If you don’t handle the business side correctly, it can negatively impact your creative work. Realizing you’re getting a raw deal, with the publisher making the lion’s share of the money, naturally causes upset. Upset individuals rarely perform at their best creatively.

Furthermore, you want a happy partnership. I tell people that if you ask a lot from your publisher, or vice versa, don’t be surprised when they ask a lot of you in return. When they ask you to visit smaller places like Iowa or Nebraska for events, don’t say no. You go because you’re collaborating to build something together.

Always remember that aspect of the business: you’re in a partnership with both benefits and responsibilities.

As a lawyer, my advice is to always read the contracts thoroughly. They contain crucial details you need to understand. Ignorance is no excuse once you’ve signed the document; there’s no turning back unless you want to hire a lawyer and sue—and who wants to do that?

Therefore, my top advice is to bring the same meticulous attention to detail to the business side as you do to your books. If you do that, you’ll be fine.

David Perell (53:34-53:54)

To shift back to writing, how do you approach developing a novel’s premise? You mentioned earlier feeling that publishers sometimes misrepresent your work. So, how do you initially conceive a premise, and then how do you effectively frame it for the book jacket?

David Baldacci (53:54-54:50)

That’s very important. The cover design, artwork, and graphics are crucial, as is the jacket copy. When people enter a bookstore, they typically look at the cover, then open the book and read the jacket copy. That copy either entices them or it doesn’t.

I dedicate significant time to this. We also spend an immense amount of time on covers, going back and forth extensively. I review and often rewrite jacket copy myself. My goal is to ensure it presents the book in the most compelling way possible, as it’s the first thing potential readers will see and read.

It’s a challenging process. I have numerous projects in development across Hollywood. They often use short pitches, describing a project as “X, Y, Z” to quickly convey the premise of a television series or movie. While I find it superficial, I understand its necessity.

David Perell (54:50-54:53)

I’m in it right now, and I’ve been working and working and working on it.

David Baldacci (54:53-55:35)

It doesn’t tell enough. It’s too shallow. I don’t want to compare my work to other stuff, but that’s what people want to hear. It gives them a context.

For me, you have to whittle it down to something that has meaning to people. When I was talking about The Nash, the premise is this: a guy did everything right and still got knocked on his ass, with no control over it.

I like to write books that resonate with people in the moment, and I thought that book would. Many people felt they had done all the right things and still got knocked on their butt.

David Perell (55:35-55:37)

So you do think about the Zeitgeist?

David Baldacci (55:37-56:42)

Yes, absolutely. When people read my novels, I want them to feel fully immersed and that the story resonates with their life.

I write about topical things. My next book, coming out in the fall, includes AI elements and explores the idea that putting all your eggs in one basket creates a very large, easy target compared to being dispersed.

I want readers to feel that when they engage with a story, they’re not just reading for pleasure. They should feel, “This matters for my life right now. I can see where this is going.”

After reading this book, I might make different decisions about my life going forward. There’s a connectivity I might not have anticipated being in the novel.

When I read books, I want that connectivity. I want people to think, “Damn, I get that!”

Maybe tomorrow, instead of doing what I thought I would, I’ll do this instead because it makes more sense. This character just went through something similar, and I saw what happened to him. I want people to connect with the pages.

David Perell (56:44-56:57)

When you write a premise, do you use that as a writer? Or do you write the first few pages and then use them as the frame for the rest of the story?

David Baldacci (56:57-56:58)

I think it’s pretty much both.

David Perell (56:59-57:05)

Do you write the premise early, or does it come later, like on the book jacket?

David Baldacci (57:05-57:45)

That comes later. I’m always eager to start. Once I get an idea in my head, I’ve learned to let it percolate a little longer.

Sometimes I would pull the trigger too soon, writing myself into a wall where nothing worked out. Now, if I have an idea for a novel, I let it percolate for a while, but I’m always itching to begin.

People often ask me what the most fun part of writing a novel is. I always say it’s the first few chapters because everything is new. You have no real idea where you’re going or what will work out, but it’s incredibly exciting. For me, that’s the first blush. It’s why I want to get to the starting line as fast as possible.

David Perell (57:45-57:54)

I was looking through different premises, even the one from Absolute Power. Do you want to read it? I have it here; it’s really good.

David Baldacci (57:55-58:12)

Set in Washington D.C., this fascinating thriller of unparalleled suspense dares to explore unthinkable abuse of power and criminal conspiracy: a vicious murder involving the U.S. President and a cover-up orchestrated by his zealously loyal chief of staff and the Secret Service. But unknown to the President and his lackeys, one unlikely witness saw everything.

David Perell (58:12-58:23)

His one unlikely witness saw everything. You could almost deconstruct that and teach six things about writing thrillers and telling good stories.

David Baldacci (58:23-59:21)

It is. That one premise creates every facet you need to write the story.

Aspiring writers sometimes email me, complaining, “I wrote 50 pages and I don’t know where to go.” It’s almost like buying a new plant at a store; it comes with all the food it needs for the growing season. Once you plant it, you only need to add water.

If you can build every necessary plot thread into the first few chapters of your novel, you will never lack for where it’s supposed to go. You might wonder how that’s possible, but just reading that premise shows you how. You have a crime, high stakes, and a witness. You’re off to the races.

That was a fun one. Who knew the President of the United States wouldn’t be a good person? I wrote that book 30 years ago.

David Perell (59:22-59:27)

Why do you think so many lawyers have become successful writers?

David Baldacci (59:28-1:01:12)

I’ve known John Grisham for 25 years and Scott Turow for even longer. Our world, before writing, consisted of words. Many of us were English majors who chose law because it involves extensive reading, researching, and writing to construct arguments and stories.

Scott, for example, had significant experience when he wrote his first novel, Presumed Innocent. As a lawyer in Chicago, he handled a lot of criminal defense work, which was directly relevant. He knew many prosecutors, and Rusty Sabich, the prosecutor in his novel, was someone he created based on his knowledge and lived experience. I believe Scott was an English major who always had an interest in writing.

John, from Mississippi, was also a criminal defense lawyer who simply wanted to write a story. His first novel, A Time to Kill, was deeply autobiographical and set in the region where he grew up. He had witnessed a case similar to the one depicted in his book. This approach is wise because we all come from a world of words.

I, however, had been writing since I was a kid. When my classmates at UVA were trying out for law review or moot court, I was trying to sell short stories to Playboy magazine, which published many great writers of the day. I always wanted to be a storyteller. I couldn’t make any money doing that, which is why I went to law school. While practicing law, I continued to write. I wrote short stories for 15 years, then screenplays, and eventually my first novel. It was that evolution.

David Perell (1:01:12-1:01:16)

So, basically, no real money came in before Absolute Power?

David Baldacci (1:01:16-1:01:34)

No, not at all. Absolute Power was really the first thing I ever sold. I’d been writing since I was a kid, and I believe I enjoyed writing because I was a voracious reader. If you ask any writer if they were an early reader, 99% will say they devoured books.

David Perell (1:01:34-1:01:44)

What is it about short stories that makes them such a good training ground for novels? Presumably, they helped you with your novel.

David Baldacci (1:01:44-1:02:32)

Short-form fiction contains all the elements of long-form fiction: plot, characters, dialogue, and narrative. However, seven pages are far less daunting than 400 pages. You can’t get ahead of yourself; if you do, you risk tumbling down the mountain.

Many people start by trying to write a novel and become overwhelmed, thinking, “I’ve written 20 pages, and I have no idea what to do now.” I always advise them to write a five-page short story and see how that goes. Don’t count words or pages; just sit down and write, letting the story unfold naturally. Don’t worry about trying to write a 400-page novel with 80 chapters. Would you attempt an 800-pound squat on your first day at the gym? It’s the same principle.

David Perell (1:02:32-1:02:58)

What makes novels so much harder than short stories? I had an image while you were speaking, of starting at a specific point and then having all these tentacles go out. With a short story, you only have a few, and you can bring them back together. But with a novel, there are so many that spread out. I’m imagining being 80 or 100 pages in and wondering how in the world I’ll bring all these things back together. What is the actual mechanism that makes it so much harder?

David Baldacci (1:02:58-1:05:58)

It’s like going from multiplication tables to physics. You’re no longer in the shallow end of the pool where you can feel the bottom. With a short story, most people can envision the ending after five pages. It’s much harder to see to the end when you’re 12 feet deep, unable to see the bottom, terrified you’ll drown.

For me, you have to write the big stuff by making it smaller. I don’t think about everything I need to put in the novel from day one. I start by writing a couple of chapters to see where it goes.

After writing those chapters, I’ll write another couple, and by then, I’ll start to learn my characters, what I think the story will be, what other characters I need to create, and where the plot is actually going. It’s almost like firming up the edges of a puzzle, getting those pieces in place. Once they’re in place, you have an idea of what it might look like.

As you start working, consider real homicide investigations. They go from the inside out, starting with the family, who are often the perpetrators. If they eliminate them, they expand their investigation until they find the true killer.

When writing a novel, you start around the edges and work your way in, moving towards the ending. You can overwhelm yourself by trying to think of everything at once. You might feel it’s impossible, thinking, “I can’t figure this out; there are too many factors.” And there are indeed too many factors if you try to do it all at once.

For me, I try to slow it down and shorten it. Suddenly, I’m not writing a novel; I’m writing a series of short stories with connectivity. At some point, with a firmer grasp of the story, things start to gel.

Then your mind becomes more like a computer. I know what happened on page 20, what will happen on page 120, and I’m definitely thinking about the scene I’ll write on page 315 that will bring everything together. At that point, I’m in my groove; I know where I’m going.

It’s a lot like research. Take my Aloysius Archer, my gumshoe in the 1950s. Many historical fiction writers wonder, “How do I know so much about that world? All the details, I never even lived there. Where do I start?”

Here’s what I did: I decided not to overwhelm myself. I put Archer to bed and woke him up in the morning, taking him through one day of his life, almost like James Joyce. I covered everything he encountered in that single day. I researched his clothes, food, how he got from point A to point B, the stores, the streets—everything in just one day of his life. That gave me about 90% of the material I needed to create that 1950s world.

David Perell (1:05:58-1:06:07)

Explain this to me. When you say “1950s research,” what are you actually doing to learn about that era?

David Baldacci (1:06:08-1:06:30)

I’ll give you an example. My last Archer novel is set in Los Angeles in 1958. I’ve been to LA many times, but not in 1958, so I went on Etsy searching for a map of Los Angeles from that period. I found what was actually a Sunoco gas map.

David Perell (1:06:30-1:06:31)

Oh, cool.

David Baldacci (1:06:31-1:08:26)

This 1958 map became my geographical bible. I loved poring over the notes and details all over the map. Everything Archer did was right there. As I looked at the map, I could see his car driving down those roads and canyons.

In another Archer novel, he was in Las Vegas in 1953. I went on YouTube. I read books about Vegas, but I wanted to see it, so I searched YouTube extensively. Finally, I found a guy in 1953 with one of those old, big video cameras. He was in a Cadillac convertible, driving down the Strip and filming everything in front of him.

He filmed the newly opened Sands Casino, and then other parts of the Strip where there was nothing but sand in the desert. This was 1953; Vegas was still being built out. I slowed the 25-minute video, going frame by frame and taking notes.

Then I sat and thought about it, manipulated the facts, and built what I needed into the story. I felt like an eyewitness, there in 1953, walking down that street and seeing the little details. They might seem insignificant, but they were important to the story.

For instance, there was a mechanical cowboy on the side of a building. It would raise a cigarette, then lower it, making a noise every hour that startled everyone. They eventually dismantled part of the robot because people were having heart attacks in the middle of the street. Just that little detail, when added, gives readers a sense of being there, allowing them to suspend disbelief. They feel truly present in 1953 Las Vegas because they know enough to immerse themselves.

David Perell (1:08:26-1:08:32)

At what point do details bring a story to life? And at what point do they actually kill a story?

David Baldacci (1:08:32-1:10:00)

If you go more than three or four sentences describing an atmosphere, mood, or time period, you’ll lose the reader. People will simply turn the page. This is where ego writing comes in. You’ve done the research, and you don’t want to remove it, so you find a place to stick it all in.

I’ve been guilty of that. But when I go through the later passages of any book during the editing process, I already know I’m going to cut that material. Sometimes I just have to write it to get it out, even though I know it won’t end up in the final novel. Sometimes I might not cut it entirely; I’ll simply move it to another place where it makes more sense. But I’ll never leave it all in, because that’s just ego.

You have to leave ego at the door when writing a novel. Everything has to prove its intent and its right to be there. If you can’t answer why something needs to be in the story...

When I worked on scripts with producers and directors, I was constantly barraged with questions like, “Why does that have to be in the film? Why does that scene have to be there? Explain that to me.” If you can’t explain it, then you have to ask yourself why it should be in the film at all.

David Perell (1:10:00-1:10:00)

Then?

David Baldacci (1:10:01-1:10:06)

Because they want to know, and the answer, “I don’t know,” is not a good one.

David Perell (1:10:07-1:10:13)

What does writing screenplays give you that writing a novel doesn’t? And what does writing novels give you that writing a screenplay doesn’t?

David Baldacci (1:10:13-1:10:18)

Screenplay writing teaches you how to be economical, efficient, and a little more clever.

David Perell (1:10:18-1:10:19)

For movies?

David Baldacci (1:10:19-1:11:35)

Yes, you become more clever about getting from point A to point B. Instead of taking a page, you use a paragraph, or you say it with a character’s action instead of dialogue. That can be more important than anything else.

I think with screenplays, everything is so streamlined, and people constantly want action to move forward, so characterizations aren’t always as fully developed as they could be. In novels, characters are often very fully developed because you have more time and more pages – a 400-page novel compared to a 100-page screenplay. The math is simple, but there are clever ways to convey a lot with just a few words.

Also, unlike a novel, you have help: an actor who will deliver the lines. For instance, in that movie I mentioned earlier, I could give Ellen Burstyn, an Academy Award-nominated actress, just one line of dialogue instead of ten. I could allow her to convey emotion with a facial movement, an expression, or just a focus on her eyes. Let her act and emote, and that accomplished the work of nine lines of dialogue. You don’t have that advantage with a novel, but you do with a screenplay.

David Perell (1:11:35-1:12:03)

I went down a big Gatsby rabbit hole, and it struck me how much more Nick Carraway’s character is developed in the book because he’s the writer. However, many aspects of Gatsby’s character really come through in the DiCaprio film adaptation because they made it so visual. The grandeur of Gatsby’s house and the scene where they’re throwing all the shirts — that didn’t quite come alive for me in the book in the same way it did in the movie.

David Baldacci (1:12:03-1:12:25)

Fitzgerald wrote that book. He was a great observer of the society he was born into and lived in, and so much of his writing was visual.

I’m rereading his collection of short stories now. Many people don’t realize Fitzgerald was one of the greatest short story writers this country has ever had. “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” for example, doesn’t sound like much, but trust me, it’s a profound story.

David Perell (1:12:25-1:12:30)

“The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” is one of my favorite stories. Eric Roth adapted it into the movie.

David Baldacci (1:12:30-1:12:31)

Yes, with Brad Pitt. I know.

David Perell (1:12:31-1:12:35)

And he said the short story itself wasn’t that great, but the premise was so good.

David Baldacci (1:12:35-1:12:36)

The premise is spectacular.

David Perell (1:12:36-1:12:37)

An all-time great premise.

David Baldacci (1:12:37-1:12:49)

Yes, and it’s a pretty long short story, spanning several pages. Fitzgerald wrote extended short stories, partly because back then, many major publications paid by the word.

David Perell (1:12:49-1:12:50)

That’s right.

David Baldacci (1:12:50-1:13:17)

I think The Great Gatsby was a very visual story. As good a writer as Fitzgerald was, seeing it adapted was catnip for a director. The visuals a director could create from that book were stunning. Then, when you add actors of DiCaprio’s caliber, it just enhances everything. It’s a story that will continue to be filmed repeatedly.

David Perell (1:13:18-1:13:24)

Tell me why you value character over plot.

David Baldacci (1:13:24-1:13:28)

Character is much more interesting for me to spend my time with.

David Perell (1:13:28-1:13:29)

So, for you as the writer?

David Baldacci (1:13:29-1:14:13)

Yes, as a writer. I’m not necessarily looking at it from the reader’s point of view at that stage, because the reader isn’t writing the book; I am. If I lose interest because the plot isn’t fascinating enough without compelling characters, then I’m not doing my best work.

As human beings, we relate more to characters because we’re essentially writing about ourselves. Plots are fine, and I spend a lot of time on mine. But I can write a great plot, and if I don’t create fascinating characters to navigate it, people won’t care. They’ll think, “Let them die, I don’t care.” That’s not the reaction you want.

So for me, it’s more fascinating, more fulfilling, and it keeps my interest.

David Perell (1:14:13-1:14:24)

What do you look for in a character? Is it simply loving them, or is it a deeper understanding—seeing them in someone familiar, like an aunt, recognizing those similarities? What kind of connection are you trying to evoke?

David Baldacci (1:14:25-1:16:05)

I want to get as far away from perfection as possible. I want characters to be vulnerable, fragile, uncertain, and to doubt themselves.

I use the analogy of military service. When you go in, you go in as yourself. My father was in the Navy, and I have many friends in all branches of the military in Northern Virginia, so I’m familiar with this process. The military’s job is to make that original self vanish. Everything you brought with you is broken down and gone. You are no longer “you” because that self has no value to them. They need to vanquish everything that made you who you were and then rebuild you as a war machine—someone who will follow orders, possess special skills, and think differently about yourself, other people, and the world.

Similarly, I don’t want to simply put my characters against the wall; I want to put them through the wall and see what emerges on the other side. The best novels, for me, feature characters who have suffered egregious loss, who have been knocked down repeatedly. Their true character emerges in how they respond, how they get back up, and how they move forward.

You never truly know a person if you’ve only seen them in good times. It’s easy to navigate good times. When circumstances are difficult, that’s when a person’s real character is revealed. That’s what I strive to find in my characters and my novels. The bad stuff is the interesting stuff; the good stuff is just vanilla.

David Perell (1:16:06-1:16:20)

How deliberate are you about planting mysteries? It feels like character development is quite intuitive for you; you possess a deep understanding of how to build good characters. Do you feel you have the same intuitive understanding when it comes to planting mysteries?

David Baldacci (1:16:20-1:17:29)

My success varies from book to book. I’ve reviewed some of my plots and thought, “I really nailed that one. That was a game, Dave.” In others, I felt I telegraphed the twist; readers probably figured it out before I intended, making it not as strong as it could have been.

Perhaps I simply missed the mark, or my mindset wasn’t where it needed to be for that particular setup. Sometimes, the character wasn’t quite right for that specific plot. The answers aren’t always crystal clear.

After every book, I try to break it down like game film. I also consider reader reaction, whether through emails to our website or conversations with friends who read the book and share their thoughts. That feedback is important to me. If I intended something one way, but enough people saw it differently, then that’s my problem. It means something wasn’t working.

David Perell (1:17:29-1:17:55)

I’m curious about your approach to writing. You’ve often mentioned your personal enjoyment, saying multiple times that you do it because you like it, and that’s what keeps you interested. Let’s consider that one premise. The other is your desire to reach a broad audience. How much do you think of your books as a product, an experience you’re offering to people?

David Baldacci (1:17:55-1:18:20)

I always start from the principle that if I am fascinated by what I’m writing about, everyone else will be fascinated too. Conversely, if I’m not interested, no matter how well I write it, nobody else will be interested either. Therefore, I have to ensure my creative and passion tanks are full before I sit down and commit to writing.

David Perell (1:18:20-1:18:22)

Is that why you wait a little longer?

David Baldacci (1:18:22-1:20:48)

I have made that mistake more often in the past than I would have liked.

When I’m ready to pull the trigger, I’m all in. I am committed to the project and determined to see it through to the very end. I’m excited about it, not dreading sitting down to write. I don’t count pages or words.

Some of my friends, who are huge bestsellers, aim for five pages or 2,000 words a day. I question that approach. What if those five pages or 2,000 words are terrible? What if the next word was going to be awesome, but you stop to go play golf? Everyone has their own way of dealing with the process.

If I’m eager to get to my desk and write, that’s a good sign. If I write fast, that’s also good because my thoughts are crystallized, and I know exactly where I’m going. When I write quickly, I write well. It means all the cylinders are clicking as they should be.

It must start with this premise: Am I excited about the idea? If I am, I can bring great material to it. Then I don’t have to worry about whether it’s trendy, what people are reading these days, or if it’s the latest Romantasy. It has to come from my heart. My excitement is key.

If I’m not excited, I shouldn’t write it. No one will enjoy reading it because the passion won’t be there. The words, characters, and plot will suffer. The biggest question is always to find something that genuinely interests you.

Every day, I try to learn something new. I aim to learn as much about the world as possible. I call these ‘knowledge pots,’ and they span a huge spectrum of topics.

When an idea strikes, I draw from these different pots—this one, then that one, maybe another one from the back of my mind. Suddenly, I put it all together, and it’s totally original because no one else’s knowledge pots are quite like mine.

Because I’ve remembered these things, they become part of my knowledge base, and I’m genuinely interested in them. For instance, no one has ever taken a C-16, a 4, and something in Cyrillic and woven them into a story. But I did exactly that because I possessed that unique knowledge base. It suddenly struck me that combining these elements could be quite fascinating. That’s always my starting point.

David Perell (1:20:49-1:20:58)

Later in the process, as you’re thinking through a scene, you’ve mentioned the emotional sequence. That really piqued my attention.

David Baldacci (1:20:58-1:22:53)

You have a finite number of opportunities in a novel where you can truly go for it. You can’t miss those moments because there aren’t many of them in any novel.

I can’t keep readers at the top of the roller coaster all the time; I have to bring them back down. Tension builds as I slowly bring them back up, and then they’re at the peak, waiting, wondering what will happen next. That’s when their stomachs drop into their throats.

Those moments are few and far between. When I’m in the middle of writing a novel and I know a scene with that potential is coming, it’s electrifying, almost giddy. I’ll think, “In just three days, I’m going to unleash this,” especially after waiting 300 pages to do it.

When it’s over, it’s almost like the come-down after a rush. I’ve never done meth, but it’s that feeling of a high followed by a low because the scene is on the paper, and it’s done.

Every book should have a few of those moments, at least one. You need the courage to go for it and to recognize that those opportunities are rare.

It’s like raising kids and experiencing their special life moments. Whether it’s a first communion, confirmation, a college degree, or a law degree, those are rare times when everything good comes together.

When I write those scenes, I don’t rush through them. I slow everything down. I want the moment to last; I want it to have deep meaning for me. When executing such a scene, I ensure I do it to the best of my ability, which means not rushing, but slowing it down.

David Perell (1:22:54-1:22:59)

You’ve written 53 novels, and also seven children’s books.

David Baldacci (1:22:59-1:22:59)

Right.

David Perell (1:22:59-1:23:04)

How are the lessons of writing the same, and how are they different, when you’re writing a children’s book?

David Baldacci (1:23:05-1:26:23)

The only difference between adult fiction and writing for younger audiences is word choice. Everything else is the same, if not even more heightened. Kids are incredibly sophisticated, and you write down to them at your peril. Just because they might be 10, 11, or 14, doesn’t mean they don’t recognize a good book. They do.

Kids have a lot going on in their lives, so you have to capture their attention quickly and then keep it. I can’t have a 50-page buildup for a 14-year-old; that simply won’t work unless I write 50 perfect pages, which is incredibly difficult. You must understand your audience and where you want to go with the story, but the key is to maintain their attention.

The way I do that isn’t necessarily by blowing things up or having someone die. It’s by writing about interesting characters doing interesting things and building suspense. The reader can sense that something significant is coming; they just need to hold on a little longer through the pacing I need to establish for my characters. They know that all of this is moving towards a climax where something truly fascinating will happen.

Hitchcock did that beautifully in all his films. He never showed you the smash; he let your imagination fill in the blanks. In Psycho, we never actually saw Janet Leigh die, but when you see the fake blood going down the drain, you know what happened. It was all about the buildup. I try to leave things to the imagination of my readers; I don’t have to spell everything out for them.

One of the best Westerns I’ve ever seen, a movie that changed the way I write some things, is Unforgiven with Clint Eastwood, which came out in 1992. There’s a scene where Eastwood shoots another guy in the gut. The guy is slowly bleeding to death, and Eastwood is far enough away that they can’t hurt each other anymore. Eastwood spends about five minutes on that scene. They talk back and forth, and the guy knows he’s dying; he’s been shot in the belly, and there’s no hospital. This is the West.

A couple of things stood out. First, it showed Eastwood grappling with the knowledge that he had just killed a man who was not yet dead but would soon die. Second, the audience could see that this wasn’t one of those movies where a guy shoots 12 people, they die quickly, and then you move on as if nothing happened. You watch this guy die in agony for five minutes. That action by Eastwood had repercussions and consequences for someone—not just for the dying man, but for Eastwood himself. You could tell he was changed by what he had done.

So, when I tell people to write action, it seems counterintuitive, but the best action is when you slow it down, not when you speed it up. When you speed it up, people miss the impact, they miss the consequence. Twelve guys are dead; so what? We’ve moved on to the next scene. When you watch it happen, and you keep watching it happen, you realize, “Damn, that guy’s dead.” You remember that, and suddenly the whole story is given a gravitas it might not have had before.

David Perell (1:26:23-1:26:36)

That’s how the human mind often works. If you ask someone about a car crash, the first thing they often say is that time slowed down, and they remember all these details. It’s like the movie in our mind does exactly that.

David Baldacci (1:26:36-1:26:56)

It’s a marvelous way to leave an impact on someone by slowing it down. This allows them to immerse themselves in what you’re trying to convey and experience it for as long as possible, because then they remember. People don’t remember snapshots; they remember longer-form experiences.

David Perell (1:26:56-1:27:02)

Speaking of Hitchcock, he once said, “There was no terror in the bang, only in the anticipation of it.”

David Baldacci (1:27:02-1:27:05)

That was pretty much the basis for every movie he ever made.

David Perell (1:27:05-1:27:14)

Let’s conclude here. You’ve emphasized the importance of actually reading the masters. Why do you say that?

David Baldacci (1:27:14-1:31:05)

Self-help books often get a bad rap, as if someone who can’t write a “real” book settles for self-help. I’m not disparaging those who write them; there’s a strong interest and demand for them. However, from my personal experience, the path isn’t about reading a book to learn how to write. It’s about reading a book just to read it, to experience the pure pleasure of reading.

Then, from my personal experience reading novels, I’d finish a story and think, “That was incredible.” I’d then ask myself why. I’d go back to the novel and trace a particular character’s journey. They started here, ended up there, and I’d discover the significant moments within the story that transformed them. It was just incredible.

By engaging with a story this way, you’re not following a self-help book’s step-by-step instructions on crafting a premise or maintaining attention. Instead, you’re witnessing the “movie” unfold, acted out by brilliant characters. You see the profound impact and what’s possible when words are arranged just right. It’s not a discrete, school-like learning experience; it’s the unspooling of a story directly in front of you.

I first read To Kill a Mockingbird as a child. Back then, it was simply an adventure story featuring kids roughly my age, and I thought it was incredibly cool. Years later, in college, I reread it and understood its deeper themes of racism and justice.

The best books grow with you. The maturity within them is always present, even if you, as a reader, aren’t yet mature enough to grasp it. As you evolve, more of the story reveals itself, waiting for you to receive it. That’s why revisiting great books is so rewarding.

For me, reading was a revelation, showing me how special stories could be and the potential I could unlock when writing my own. The profound impact they had on me made me want to create that same experience for future readers. That’s why reading the masters is invaluable.

You sit down not to be told how to build a story, but to read one already expertly crafted. If, by the end, you think, “That was a hell of a story,” then it has served its purpose, becoming a powerful source of motivation if you aspire to write. That’s precisely what happened to me.

I read so many great books and thought, “I want to do this. I want to make others feel the way I feel right now, after finishing that novel.” It’s truly one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I grew up in Richmond, Virginia. When I was born, segregation was still the law of the land; the Civil Rights Act hadn’t yet passed. I lived in a black and white world, constantly told by everyone that this was the natural order.

The one thing that saved me were books. Mark Twain once famously said that travel is fatal to prejudice. Having toured the world multiple times for his books, he understood that when you see people where they live, you quickly discover they are just like you and me.

As a child, I couldn’t travel, but I believe I journeyed the world without a plane ticket or passport, simply by reading. When people would approach me with the “boogeyman” argument, telling me to fear others because they looked different, my response was always the same: “I’ve read all about them in countless books. You’ll need a different argument, because that one won’t work on me.”

I grew up in a world rife with racism, yet I emerged without prejudice because those arguments no longer resonated with me, thanks to books. I often say that books are like body armor against bigotry. In fact, books are body armor against every bad thing in the world.

David Perell (1:31:05-1:31:21)

I’ve done almost 150 of these, and there aren’t many where I feel like I’ve learned more than in this conversation. Holy cow! That’s what happens when you’ve written 60 books – a machine gun of insights I’d never considered. It was great to meet you. Thank you very much.

David Baldacci (1:31:21-1:31:23)

Same here. I appreciate the opportunity.