To Tell or Not to Tell

Deciding to write a book was easy. Deciding who to tell, that was like climbing Everest. Now that some of my friends and family know my secret, they have trouble understanding why I didn't tell them from the beginning. This is my attempt to articulate the logic and evolution of my silence.

In the beginning, to put it simply, I didn't want to jinx it. If you don't ever tell anyone, there are no witnesses to hold you accountable for your actions (or inaction). My secret was a preemptive strike against "whatever happened with that book you were gonna write?" We are all guilty of it; we have all made grand public declarations about one thing or another, only to later be reminded of our failures by our loved ones. Rising Tide was too important to allow it to be sabotaged by the pressure to commit.

So, I decided I would write a book and then I told exactly one person. My roommate. I had to for logistical purposes. There was no way I would have been able to hide the obsessive compulsive behavior of writing a novel from him. I swore him to secrecy and threatened to cut off his balls if he told anyone. Only twice did he earn a swift kick in the shins for hinting to family members that I was up to no good.

Upon completion of my first draft, I added my editor to the list. Again, a logistical necessity. At this point my need for secrecy shifted from performance anxiety to feelings of inadequacy. I began to doubt myself. What if it was crap?

Slowly my fears were allayed. My editor (and friend of more than twenty years) liked it, even admitting it was her first zombie read, and has been bugging me for the sequel. It's OK if I make an ass of myself in front of strangers, but I only have so many friends and family members. The staunch approval of one of my closest friends drove me to the next step.

We cleaned it up and made it public. Eventually, I got enough positive support from complete strangers that I decided I should bring some others in on the secret. As my confidence grew, my need to have support in my corner outweighed my discomfort. And so I added a half dozen friends, whom I knew I could trust, to act as sleepers to occasionally "like" my Facebook posts and casually bring my book up in conversation.

Shortly thereafter, I opted to tell my mother which resulted in a rabid cat escaping swiftly from the bag. I asked her not to tell anyone, so naturally she told my father. Within 12 hours I had a voicemail from my grandmother wanting to know my pseudonym and how she could get a copy of my book. My hand was forced and I issued a family press release, notifying them of the good news and that they should not use social media to congratulate anyone other than Leigh Fischer.

At this point, I have received enough positive feedback that I am confident I have done the right thing. I know it's not perfect and it has problems, but I am satisfied that I have not completely humiliated myself and that I need to keep trying. With this confidence, I now keep my list at a minimum simply because there is no point in having a Nom de Plume if everyone knows your true identity. No one would call him Batman if they knew he was really Bruce Wayne. Where is the fun in that?