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I suggested that the couple seek therapy, then went home to write a column on "The Aretha Principle: Respect Your Relationship Enough to Treat Your Partner Right." Readers responded appreciatively. (Phew.) I remained the relationship fairy, sprinkling good love advice around.

After Montel, I quit tabloid talk-TV, but did accept a Learning Annex request to host a seminar. I nixed their first idea, "How to Steal Another Woman's Man" (integrity alert!), but signed on to lead "Picking Up Girls—For Men Only."

Considering my tendency to hang in a corner at parties, too self-conscious to even smile, I was going to need balls to counsel 40 penis-owners on flirtation tactics. Channeling Carrie Bradshaw, I strode to the front of the classroom and asked the nervously giggling, mostly fashion-challenged crew what they hoped to gain from the evening. The first answer, "Help! As soon as women look at me, they run for the hills," aroused my sympathy. The second, "I want to see what chance I have if I leave my wife," did not. I suggested to the would-be adulterer that marriage counseling might be a better option.

One of my acolytes was kinda cute, funny even. Why was he here? If only he would ask me out. But wait—that was why he was here: no guts.

Quickly, I donned my "expert" cape. "You see, gentlemen," I lectured, "it's not about putting on an act, but about being yourself." They looked at me like I'd cracked open the Holy Book.

Sherry, the false prophet. So unable to help myself, could I truly be helping others?

Mired in self-doubt, I decided that one way to gain legitimacy was to write a book. Publisher after publisher turned down my proposal for a romance-advice tome. Where were my credentials? My new job at a women's Web site wasn't a suitable substitute for a degree. Undeterred, I wrote a proposal for The Q & A Dating Book, which had me posing questions to "real" experts and choosing the best answers. In an ironic twist, the publisher who finally made an offer (sufficient for a few Frappuccinos) demanded that instead of soliciting advice, I answer the questions myself: Otherwise, my book would seem like an anthology. The "expert" classification was proving impossible to shake.

Journalists at publications from The New York Times to Tango were now routinely calling me for quotes. The better talk shows invited me on, although the topic du jour often had nothing to do with my area of "expertise." (Football widows, anyone?)With book number two, credentials weren't an issue anymore. When I got the prepublication galleys for Love Lessons from Bad Breakups I reread my advice—and concurred! Somewhere along the way, I'd stopped needing to quiz experts and become secure in my own opinions.

Lonely singles contacted me to coach them into successful relationships. Initially hesitant to put up my shingle, I salved my conscience by promising clients not a primer on how to meet a mate in 30 days, but a sincere attempt to cheerlead as we figured out their dating blocks. I used solid techniques (e.g., charting a love history) that clients credited with helping them change their points of view. Rather than trying the techniques myself, I bought a desk placard that read TAKE MY ADVICE, I DON'T USE IT.