I knew a guy once, we’ll call him Matt because I never bothered to remember his name and for that, I’m sorry Matt (but really I’m not and in another way, I’m sorry for that, too). Matt was a coworker of mine while I worked at Sears. It was supposed to be a new beginning for me that eventually dominoed into a slew of disappointments that I’d rather forget.

Before Sears, I worked at a gold buyer which was my favorite part-time job of all time. It was part social-economic experiment, part reading marathon, part pyramid scheme and I loved every minute of it. Unfortunately, the gold business had reached a steady decline and people were not as willing to part with their jewelry as we would have liked. In the wee hours of the morning, the owner snuck into the mall before any employee got there and cleaned the kiosk out, shutting us down for good. I was out of a job. But then I heard Sears was hiring (because they are always hiring; red flag #1), and I was just wanting a job again (actually, the thought of not having any money was far more terrifying), so I applied.

With the most minimal effort, I got the job (red flag #2). Before any employee starts their first shift, they’re required to take a tour of the store and meet their future coworkers in a meet-and-greet styled walkthrough. You’re supposed to get an inkling of what your job is, but what you’re actually doing is dismantling any long-term career goals you had and locating the exits for an escape route.

The tour is as useful to current employees as it is for future employees. Every time there’s a new hire a string of rumors precede their first day. What do we know about this person? What are they like? Are they cute? Are they cool? Funny? Single? There were two facts that preceded my arrival: 1) his name is Ruben, and 2) he studied English. The latter was almost never brought up. Until Matt.

And he said, verbatim, “Hi, I’m Matt. So I heard you’re an English major. I’m writing a novel.”

There are some unwritten rules when you’re a writer in the classroom. First, everyone assumes you’re writing a novel. We all know that somewhere deep inside you there’s a young adult fantasy series that spans multiples volumes. The second rule is, unless inquired, don’t talk about your novel. You can talk about shorts, poems, stories, books, flashes, segments, novellas, scripts, whatever, but for the love of god don’t talk about your novel. Why? Writing is a solitary habit for most people. Even if you’re in a coffee shop, what happens between you and the page is private and nuanced and on a few occasions, nirvana. Discussing the process is fine, but it’s giving allowance to a part of you that is unfinished, deeply personal and imperfect. The other reason is because no one gives a shit.

So here I have round-headed, socially awkward Matt, someone who I have known for seconds and whom I’m already finding myself at odds with. It’s not like talking about your book is bad (well it can be, here’s a TEDtalk about it and you know those are true), but imagine a stranger sharing a humiliating story with you, and while you laugh out of politeness and cringe with vicarious embarrassment you think in the back of your head “I could have continued my day without knowing that.” That’s what it’s like when someone tells you about their book.

But Matt didn’t get it. And whether it was because he was reaching out for someone to respond to him or because he couldn’t understand human facial cues, he was keen to let everyone know.

“I’m writing a novel,” he would say behind the register. Some poor woman just wanted to buy a blouse and was now getting a full synopsis of the Hero’s Journey with names, dates, and locations changed for legal reasons. But it didn’t stop there. Matt had to let you know about his writer’s block and his sentence structuring and his difficulties with plotting.

“I was up all night just trying to get through this chapter. I’m writing a novel, you see.”

It went on like this for six months, and probably much longer because that’s when I quit. I felt bad for Matt. What he wanted was for someone to be interested in his work and effort. But he was pitching his story to the wrong crowd. Your relatives, coworkers, and friends aren’t the people who are going to help you. They’ll find the time to not read your book and come up with ways to spare feelings.

Why do people do it? For the ego massage, mostly. Because everyone wants their work validated in some way. Because it feels good. Some of these folks are doing it just for the fun of it. Not to be pretentious, but writers don’t need the validation. If a writer shares that information with you, it’s for your opinion, not your approval.

So where do you go for help? Who do you seek out for critiques or approval? Other writers, of course. People who won’t roll their eyes at you or suddenly remember that there’s something they needed to do. They’ll give you honest feedback and they won’t comment about how much you talk about your book even though it’s not NaNoWriMo. Unsure if your city has a writing group? Google your town then add “writing group.” It’s really that easy.

If someone shares their future masterpiece or some unfinished work with you, keep an open mind. It’s rude to be dismissive. Read it if they ask you, but remind them that if they want to get anywhere to talk about it with other artists. Or maybe remind them of this age-old adage that I just made up:

“Novels are like assholes; everyone is sitting on one, and very, very few people want to take a look at yours.”

— Me