One of the things I have never done before is to allow my wife of 20 years(!) to read anything I have written. It’s self-preservation, really.

You see, the crippling fear is that the person whose opinion means the most to me might think what I have written is no good.

What if she thinks it’s boring? What if she thinks it’s trite? What if she thinks it sucks?

I feel like after 23 years together I have a pretty good grasp on when she is being honest (spoiler: always) and when she is just saying something to make me feel better.

Well, after years of her asking to let her read my book, I finally gave in.

Now, we’re talking about someone who is a voracious reader. I savor books, slowly ingesting each phrase and description, careful not to rush through any critical details. She tears through books at a blinding pace. I cannot count the number of times she has gotten less than a chapter into a book only to say aloud, “I think I’ve read this book before.”

What I am trying to say is, this is a well-read person who knows when a piece of fiction sucks.

I won’t lie. I was literally in tears when she began reading it because I had someone to whom I could finally spew forth all my thoughts, ideas, and the obstacles I have experienced writing this book. It felt so damn good to collaborate in a way with another person.

Quite frankly, I was now jabbering on a bit too much and was politely asked to stop apologizing for stuff she hadn’t even read yet.

Ultimately, she likes my book. She said it reads like it was written by someone who is a published author.

I’m glad I took the risk.

I look forward to the next one.