There’s a new locum surgeon starting at my hospital, and I heard on the grapevine this week that he writes books.
Apparently it’s a series about a surgeon who gets up to sexual hijinks whilst investigating murders. Hopefully it’s fictional.
An old friend of my husbands has also recently published a book, which Simon has really enjoyed reading. I can’t remember any details about the plot, but it’s a novel about a lawyer (the author being a lawyer).
And on Wednesday, as I was waiting outside our yoga dojo while the previous class were in shavasana, I overheard a conversation with one classmate asking another about what he thought about the book written by a mutual friend that was on the hunt for a publisher. The plot involved, as far as I could make out before the door was unlocked and we were allowed in, following the protagonists through their backstories from the moment a bullet was fired. You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen!
I know the old saying, that there’s a novel inside each of us, and for the majority, that’s where it should stay. I’m sure it’s true, but I’m getting a strong sense of FOMO nonetheless. The trouble is, I can’t think of any book I could write that I would want to read myself. I’m considering that as an important sign that I should stick with my day job.
