After pouring heart and soul into crafting my debut novel, and years of backbreaking labor seeking a publisher, the big day arrived at last. And I allowed myself to dream.

I am not famous, and my publisher is small, so I didn’t expect the likes of Bernie Madoff or Elizabeth Holmes to come calling. But I thought my book merited at least a modicum of shady attention. I did my best to help my own cause via interviews, social media, and making sure my computer remained open to malware.

It must be far easier for writers backed by the clout of Big Five publishers. With all those publicists arranging ad campaigns, media hits, and book tours, I imagine the con men start swarming on Day One.

For me, it became a waiting game. I tried not to check my spam folder more than twice an hour, because it never held anything other than the same generic stuff that non-authors get.

The initial fever pitch of anticipation slowly subsided. Months piled up, and hope faded. After all, tens of thousands of books get published every year. Why should mine get noticed by cyber criminals?

I’ll admit I perused the posts and blogs of other authors with envy. Why were they receiving AI-generated come-ons, and I wasn’t? Why were they getting offered pricey fake reviews and pitched on dubious schemes to boost their book’s profile on Goodreads?

As my publication anniversary neared, I felt more sadness and disappointment than anything else. Not a single attempt to rip me off. In an entire year.

Then, out of nowhere, I received an email claiming to be from the organizer of a book meetup in a major European city. They wanted to feature my novel in an upcoming event. They would send more details if I was interested.

Was I interested? Does Dostoyevsky delve into the depths of the human soul?

I calibrated my response carefully, though. Scammers are notoriously skittish. Sure, I wrote, please tell me more.

They described an enticing scenario: a roomful of avid readers conducting a guided discussion of my book, then going forth to share their enthusiasm. Almost as an afterthought, the organizer mentioned a small fee for defraying expenses such as promotion, venue, and sustaining the book club as a nonprofit (nice touch!) community project.

I became giddy. So what if they addressed me awkwardly using my first and last names? So what if they were emailing at 3:00 A.M. in their purported time zone? I never expected a smooth operator like George Santos to be the first to come after me. Surely their game will improve over time. You have to start somewhere.

The paragraph gushing about my book consisted of words and phrases lifted, hopefully by AI, from the description on my Amazon listing. The recycling of my own summary to flatter me felt oddly gratifying, like I was a co-conspirator. I had attained a new level of authorhood.

Having been recognized as a worthy target for phony solicitations, my imagination ran wild. I mentally composed wry, faux-outraged social media posts. And I fantasized about insisting, once it came time for the payment, on having the book club first send me ten percent, to verify the channel. Which would give me a foot in each camp, author and scammer. Thereafter, I foresaw increasingly dire warnings from “Rachel H” and cleverly coy replies from me.

Before I could launch my little plot, however, I received another message, allegedly from a different book club. They wanted to feature my novel at their meeting two weeks hence. In a major American city. Not Brooklyn, but still. I was on my way.