I'm writing a book that you'll probably never read; I'm writing it in Welsh.

By doing this, I can tell people at high school reunions that it is brilliant and ensure that no one will be able to prove I am lying.

Because, of course, that's the only reason anyone ever writes a book -- to brag about it.

A few years ago, I wrote a novel in English but never succeeded in getting it published, which makes it slightly more unreadable than this Welsh book. Something about the absence of a publisher's stamp of approval causes even the best of friends to treat an unpublished work as if it were a brown recluse spider. They want nothing to do with it.

Out of sense of politeness they will accidentally say something like, "Oh, I'd like to read your book some time," but then immediately find themselves backpedaling when I agree.

"Yeah, sure," I'll say. "I've got it stored on this USB flash drive. You can take it home with you."

"Oh. Uhm. Well, I wouldn't want to... uhm... lose your flash drive..." they'll stutter.

"That's OK. I've got it backed up on several drives. If it's easier, I can just e-mail the file to you."

"Uhm, I've decided to give up on using e-mail out of solidarity with postal service unions."

"Well, how about if I come over to your house and just read it to you?"

"Oh. Uhm. Er. No." they'll sigh. "Look, when I said that I'd like to read your book, I meant it in the same way as I'd like to win $10 million by winning a fight-to-the-death cage match. But see, I don't fancy my odds in a cage match, so I'm not even going to try."

"Reading my book is considerably less dangerous than fighting in a cage."

"Indeed. And less exciting. And there's no prize money. To be perfectly honest with you, I'd probably go for the cage match over your book. But, see, I'm not going to do either. Now, I'll kindly thank you to never speak of it again."

And generally I've gotten into the habit of doing just that. There are no points to be won by confessing to be the author of an unpublished novel. It's like wearing a T-shirt that says, "My mother-in-law was right: Her daughter IS too good for me."

I can't say it doesn't wear on me, though. I get frustrated that my aspirations of being a writer remain confined to obscure corners of the Internet. And like all real men, I blame my failure on external factors.

Have you ever watched a wide receiver miss the world's easiest pass and then promptly look at his gloves? Or the golfer who sends his ball slicing toward Azerbaijan and then stares quizzically at his club?

Man Rule No. 8 is: When in doubt, blame the tools.

So I'm convinced that the reason I'm not a good writer is not simply that I am not a good writer, but that I'm not drinking enough. I don't smoke. I don't own a velvet jacket with elbow patches. I've never been to Tibet. My writing space is not perched on a cliff or in a cabin in the mountains. And I don't have relationship problems.

How the heck am I supposed to be a great author if my wife and I never fight? As of this Thursday, she and I will have been married nine years, and it disgusts me to report you that those nine years have been wonderful.

She's been supportive and caring and fun and beautiful and we have never once had a running gun battle through the home. She's never burned all my clothes in the front yard. She hasn't even thrown a cooking utensil at me.

In terms of my becoming the sort of author that drunken college guys namedrop when trying to pick up strangely attractive, Gothy English majors, my marriage is doing me no favors.

What really annoys me is: I'm OK with that. If it's a choice between literary fame and the opportunity to wake up every day to someone who really loves me, I'm always going to pick the latter. And it's in part because of that love -- nine years of unwavering support, caring, and stuff that the family nature of this article won't allow me to mention -- that I keep writing. My wife gives me faith in myself; she encourages me to keep trying.

Maybe, though, just for our anniversary, she could kick me in the shins.

Chris Cope lives with his wife in Cardiff, Wales. His column appears every other Tuesday.