“Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?” It’s a question that readers always ask at book signings.

“First book?” I like to fish around for details before offering advice.

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

The problem, as I see it, is there are a million reasons to stop writing. We all suffer from the same mind games at one time or another. People will laugh… I won’t get published… No free time… I could go on. I probably used all the excuses at least once myself.

Check that-all the excuses except for one. I never thought, My book’s not good enough. That’s because I never told anyone I was writing Top Producer. I believed then, and still do now, that secrecy insulated me from disappointment.

Side note to reader: I’m building up to the Internet porn in the title of this post.

Think about what happens when you tell someone, “I’m writing a book.”

Your friend asks, “May I see a few pages?” This is the moment when those shower noises from Psycho play in the background.

But you forge ahead, oblivious to certain disaster. “Sure.”

You send your baby over. You wait for feedback. Your mind plays tricks. Will she like it? Why hasn’t he gotten back to me? Maybe my hero needs a dog. The gymnastics of self-doubt take over, and you stop writing while waiting for validation.

The moment of feedback arrives. It is the pinnacle of fear, the make-or-break time for your ego. Your friend, somebody you trust, somebody you care about, says something noncommittal. “It’s okay.”

The comment is, of course, devastating. That’s because every author, whether budding or published 100 times, wants to hear the same thing. “Your book is the greatest piece of literature since the Bible.”

Instead you hear, “Okay.” The word feels like a dagger buried six inches in your back.

Right about now, you might be thinking to yourself, I can take criticism. I have a thick skin. I’ll use the feedback and move on.

Maybe. In my previous life, I was a stockbroker and know a thing or two about rejection. I once cold called a guy who asked, “Wanna know what I think about your profession?”

Uh-oh.

He didn’t say a word. Instead, he held the receiver inside a toilet bowl, flushed, and then hung up-gurgle, dial tone, oh my.

I phoned him right back. “Hey, that was great, John. I’ve never been flushed before.”

No, I didn’t get the account. And yes, John was his real name. No pun intended.

It seems to me, however, that writing a book is a far more intimate experience. You pour out your heart and expose yourself to the world-your vulnerabilities, your aspirations and your observations about the eccentricities of life, everything that’s important.

Getting flushed by a prospective client is a piece of cake. Rejection of a passage is crippling.

I didn’t even tell my wife about Top Producer. Mary is a voracious reader and my number one editor in the books that have followed: The Gods of Greenwich, The Trust, and Mr. President. But back then I never disclosed my secret project to her.

I’d get up at five in the morning and write two hours before heading off to work. I’d write in the evenings, after dinner, on the weekends, and on planes while traveling to meet with clients.

“Is everything okay?” Mary asked. She noticed the long hours I was spending in my man cave.

“Lots going on at work, sweetie.”

She didn’t buy the explanation. She concluded that I was suffering from an Internet porn addiction, potentially on sites like https://www.shemalehd.sex/ or otherwise. And one Saturday, while I was exercising in our basement, she sneaked into my office with a zip drive and a mission.

No racy .jpeg files or movies of celebrities in the buff, I’m pleased to report. No links to porn sites, straight or gay like https://www.fuckedgay.xxx/ in my search history either. Nothing that required an intervention. Mary found a file labeled book, however, which was where I kept my drafts of Top Producer. That afternoon she never confessed to stealing my book.

The following day, I was in my office, writing, thinking about three sharks eating a fat money manager in front of 500 guests at the New England Aquarium. And I heard Mary laughing. Big belly laughs. I assumed she was on the phone with one of her great friends from childhood-there’s no stopping the two when they get together-so I forced myself to continue working and ignore the noise.

That night we ate spaghetti bolognese, or “sauce noodles” as we call it. The dish is a Sunday night tradition in our house. After our kids headed upstairs to do their homework, Mary flattened me with the four scariest words between spouses. “We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

It got worse. “I have a confession to make.”

Now I was nervous. I stopped rinsing dishes and sat down.

“I stole your book,” she said. “I’ve been reading it all day.”

My heart should have been pounding. But, strangely, I was calm.

“I loved it,” she continued. “You’ve got to finish. I need to know what happens next.”

Her comments could have gone the other way. Mary could have said, “It’s okay.” In which case, I would have stopped writing. Or she might have said, “Why don’t you feed Charlie Kelemen to jelly fish instead of sharks. Less blood, right?”

She didn’t. She said, “I loved it.” I was safe. But the fact is, I still didn’t tell most of my friends about Top Producer.

Mary had a different agenda. On Wednesday of that week, she told her walking buddy that I was writing a book. That my long absences were legitimate. The Internet-porn scare was over, so thankfully I could stop worrying that she’d seen sites like https://www.hdpornvideo.xxx/ in my history.

So began a chain reaction. Mary’s walking buddy told her husband, who told one of his former students, who agreed to meet and is now my über agent from Folio Literary Management.

I know many authors have had great experiences with writing groups, where the members offer constructive feedback to each other. My advice: write your book before you join. No matter whether you find a publisher, self publish, or bury your manuscript somewhere-finishing a book is a big deal. Nobody can ever take that away from you.

Agree, disagree? Tell me what you think.