The Coal Man's Little Book

Dear friend,

The riddle first. By now you know the rules, and if you don't, the archive is that way and I'll wait.

Two men sell coal on one grey street,
And both hear "no" from those they meet.
One tips his cap and hunts anew,
One scribbles something, hid from view.
When winter bites, whose cart runs dry?
And what was written, and for why?

Hold it. Story time.

The Story

October, in the town I've never once named, two coal merchants worked the same terraced street, door by door, taking orders for the winter.

The first man was quick. Knock, pitch, and if the answer was no, a tip of the cap and on to the next door, and when the street was done, the next street, and the next town after that. He was, he liked to say, a hunter. Always new doors. He worked harder every year of his life.

The second man was slower, because whenever a door said no, he did a strange thing. He took out a little oilskin book and wrote in it. Not the no itself. The reason.

"Mrs. Hale, No. 14. Half a bunker left from spring. Try again late November."

"Mr. Prosser, No. 31. Waiting on the pit wages settling. Back first week of December, and don't mention the union."

And when late November came, he didn't knock on Mrs. Hale's door as a stranger. He knocked as the man who remembered. "Bunker must be getting low about now, I'd say." It was. She never bought coal from anyone else again, and nor did the neighbour she told about him.

By the third winter, the second man served nearly every house on that street without knocking on a single new door. The first man was three towns away, still hunting, wondering why the game got harder as his legs got older.

The Lesson, Since You've Earned It

The first coal man heard "no" as a verdict. The second heard it as not a verdict, a date.

And that's the whole secret of the follow-up, which is the most neglected fortune in all of selling. Hardly anyone buys at the first knock. Not because they're against you, but because the bunker is half full. The timing is wrong, the budget lands in April, the decision needs a spouse who's away till Tuesday. The reason for the no nearly always has an expiry printed on it, and the seller who writes the reason down gets to come back the very week it expires, while every competitor is still out buying new doors at full price.

Three questions, and be honest, because Tilley can hear you fibbing from here:

1. What happened to your last hundred noes? If the answer is "nothing, they're gone," you have been pouring water on sand. Those noes cost you money to collect. They are stock, sitting in a warehouse you refuse to visit.
2. Did you write down the reason, exactly? "Not interested" is not a reason, it's a door closing politely. The reason is the half-full bunker. Get it, note it, and diary the date it runs out. That one habit turns a cold list into a calendar of warm knocks.
3. Are you hunting or farming? New customers are the dearest thing you will ever buy. The street you've already walked, the list you've already built, the noes you've already earned: that's land. The first man rented his income by the day. The second man owned the street.

The Answer to the Riddle

What was written, and for why?

The reasons. He kept his noes, every one, because he understood what the hunter never did: a no with a reason attached is just a yes that hasn't ripened. The poor man threw his noes away and started every morning from nothing. The rich man never started from nothing again in his life.

The verse:

The door that's shut is not a wall,
It's mostly just "not yet, this fall."
So keep each no, and name the day,
The street belongs to those who stay.

Until next time. Go and find out where your last hundred noes are buried, and bring a shovel.

---

P.S. Count the follow-ups you sent last month. If the number is nought, then the problem was never your product, your price, or your pastry. It was your book.