Are you running for office? Do you love attention and easy cash? Do you have a prosthetic limb or two? Then the motivational speaking business may be for you. Corporate meetings are a $122 billion industry, and keynotes pay some very sweet fees. Don't worry about expertise—a simple accident or disease, a failed bid for glory, or a background in coaching can have you off and running in no time. You'll be pleasantly surprised how easy it is to inspire others, if only for a few hours. Here are just a few well-trod paths to the podium.
In the summer of 2001, former New York City mayor Rudolph Giuliani was struggling in the popularity polls and obsessing about ferrets. That was before 9/11 turned him into a hero and one of the stars on the Get Motivated! tent show, a Lollapalooza-caliber lecture series that draws 20,000-30,000 people per event. Tying oneself to a national tragedy is risky, of course; you don't want to be seen as exploiting the courageous men and women who worked and died that day. But Rudy's a pro. He's been headlining the event for three years now—a great opportunity to test the presidential waters for 2008. In the company of God boosters such as George Foreman and Zig Ziglar, Rudy's working on his evangelical appeal. That is, when he's not channeling Vince Lombardi (see No. 3, below) and earning more than $100,000 (not counting the private jet) per solo event.
Born with seriously deformed lower limbs, Ronan Tynan nonetheless grew up to compete in equestrian events; then, in an automobile accident, he injured his legs further and went the prosthetic route. On metal stilts, he flung the discus to record lengths in the Paralympics. A compulsive overachiever, he became a doctor and then an opera singer, singing as one of the Irish Tenors. He sang at Ronald Reagan's funeral and the 9/11 memorial in Yankee Stadium. In speeches he thanks his dad a lot and urges folks to "look in the mirror each morning, [and] think, 'I'm great!'" He also tells a funny story about the time, soon after he got his prostheses, that his dancing partner bumped up against him and exclaimed, "My, you're hard!" His autobiography, Halfway Home: My Life Until Now, became a best-seller, and he now commands speaking fees of up to $20,000. Extra points here if you do your own amputation—as did Aron Ralston, a mountain climber who sawed off his arm with a multi-tool to escape being stuck behind a boulder, making him an overnight media sensation. Now, it costs an arm and a leg to book him to speak.
Ever since Cicero fired up the Romans for their grueling flag-football game against the Goths, coaches have been a proven hit on the motivational stage—especially those with a winning record. Legendary Green Bay coach Vince Lombardi got the ball rolling big-time (his famous line "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing" is still frequently quoted, whether he actually said it or not). Then came Mike Ditka, Phil Jackson, and Coach K (Mike Krzyzewski). Anything under $20K per event is chump change for these guys. Athletes also fare well, and, good news, they don't have to win to cash in. Vince Poscente, a big draw on the corporate circuit, is a Canadian speed skier who finished 15th in the Olympics he was heavily favored to win. Now he takes gold to the tune of $15K for every appearance.
Nothing brings out the crowds like a near-death experience. It helps if you've learned something, too. But a brush with disaster on Everest may not suffice—you've got too much competition with other summitters (one just climbed the peak blind). Think about two near-deaths if you're ambitious. W. Mitchell survived a flaming motorcycle accident and practically burned his face off; a few years later, he crashed his plane and broke his back. "There's a world full of people with internal scars much worse than mine," he reported from his motorized wheelchair. Mitchell does about 25 talks a year at $15,500 per. Another multi-death-cheater, Theo Androus, hit a van going 60 miles per hour and was "code blue"—kaput. But he survived, then shattered his leg so badly playing soccer it almost had to be amputated. He spent weeks in the hospital and then went ahead and competed in a Triathlon: He calls himself the "Titanium Triathlete." Androus delivers about 80 speeches a year, charging between $7K and $10K.
A SURVIVOR'S TALE Richard Hatch5. Whiten your teeth. A pleasant appearance is key. A man with an unattractive set of chompers isn't likely to make a good impression—or a high fee. Don't skimp here, go the extra mile with the laser treatment. Nothing looks worse on the all-important demo tape than a yellow smile. Speaking of demo tapes, be a big spender. The one-camera shot with built-in mic and red curtain will get you a gig in a peep show booth, but not at an IBM retreat. Your tape, incidentally, is your calling card at a speaker's bureau, which is the only way to get booked. Bureaus can be very picky and take as much as thirty percent of your fee. If you're thinking, "Maybe I should open a bureau," be forewarned: There are hundreds of speaker's bureaus, ranging from the mom-and-pops to the industry's 800-pound gorilla, The Washington Speakers Bureau, which books the likes of Colin Powell and ex-White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan.
This may seem like an odd credential, since that's why you're becoming a speaker in the first place. But Americans shell out millions of dollars each year to hear how other people got rich. The 1960 classic Success Through a Positive Mental Attitude, was co-written by W. Clement Stone, who made a fortune in insurance and was dynamite on the dais. The all-time champ in this category was the 19th-century Baptist minister Russell Conwell (see "No. 7," below), who delivered the same speech, "Acres of Diamonds," more than 6,000 times. With the profits he founded Temple University.
Religious conversion won't appeal to every audience, but it's good to have in your back pocket when needed. Among many who've benefited from the big moment on the Road to Damascus is evangelical Christian Zig Ziglar. After peddling cookware and "cancer insurance," his career took off one Independence Day night when he saw a star fall: "On July 4, 1972," he has written, "Christ asked me to come to Him and I did." His show is one part insight ("Stressed is desserts spelled backwards") and one part advice ("You only drown in water if you stay in it") Converts place second only to preachers in this group, and it helps if you come from the south or are Baptist. Jewish and Muslim motivational speakers are less common (and no, Osama bin Laden doesn't count).
Most folks would keep a low profile after crashing a submarine into a fishing boat of a friendly nation and killing nine sailors. Commander Scott Waddle, whose fast-attack sub, the USS Greeneville, surfaced smack into a boat full of Japanese fishermen, is not one to shirk his duty. He tells all about life on a nuclear sub and doesn't pass the buck by blaming sonar, bad maps, or the VIPs on board who wanted to see some speed. He stood up like a man and took responsibility. We could all learn something from Scott Waddle—who makes $7,500 per speech.
This is not the club where George Jessel introduced the Rat Pack (that was the Friars). It is a large, supportive international organization with lots of local meetings where you stand up and practice mouthing off. Speaking comes naturally to few: The Athenian speech-maker Demosthenes walked around with pebbles in his mouth to improve his skills, and the now-legendary orator Winston Churchill stuttered and fainted the first time he gave a speech. Toastmasters costs about $50 a year, and you won't hear more clapping outside of an AA meeting.
Technically this isn't a requirement for being a speaker, but it does get extra attention in the media, which is money in the bank on the motivation circuit. Witness Richard Hatch, winner of the first Survivor, who converted those tense nights by the campfire into happy days on the dais. He's now appealing his conviction for tax evasion, but that's no reason for Hatch to fret. Going to prison does not always end a motivational career. Unlikely as it sounds, a few years behind bars can even add some pizazz to an otherwise unexceptional résumé. A rich-kid-gone-bad, Victor Woods decided to become a motivational speaker while doing six years for credit card fraud. Even release is not a requirement. Wilbert Rideau, serving a life sentence for murder, bills himself as "The Most Rehabilitated Prisoner in America" and gives his talks from prison. Nice work if you can get it.
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