Uncle Reggie heard my knock and, after two long minutes, opened the door.

“Come in, sport,” he said. “What’s on your mind? Take a seat there in that chair. Tell me, did you like breakfast this morning?”

“It was delicious, Uncle. Thanks,” I replied.

“Good boy. We’ll see if we can’t do as well tomorrow. Bear with me,” he said.

I sat down. This was an uncle we never saw much of, but he was the most famous one in the family. He was one of my mum’s brothers and had written several bestselling spy novels of the sort written by Follet, Ludlum and Ceroni.  We were staying with him a few days at his nice cottage near Scarborough, on the North Sea coast.

“I’ve come to ask you about writing. I now feel sure I want to be a writer,” I told him.

“Like me, I suppose,” he said.

“Well, I guess--more or less.”

“Hmm. You see that top desk drawer on the left?” he asked.

I looked over toward the corner of the room.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Look in it, please.”

I got up, opened the drawer and looked in. Then I looked back at my uncle.

“What do you see in the drawer?” he asked.

“A gun,” I answered. “A handgun.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Can you imagine shooting yourself several times with that gun in two or three places in your legs and arms?”

“It would be awfully bloody and painful, Sir. I'd cry and scream. I’d need qualified medical attention immediately,” I answered.

“I totally agree,” he said. “Doing such a thing, my lad, would be far easier to accomplish than to become what is considered a successful writer.” He then added: “I’m serious.”