The cardiologist is new to me—a middle-aged man with a richly-appointed office to match his imperious manner. I’m still sweaty from the stress test, afraid of leaving marks on his upholstery, as he grills me for the follow-up. He asks me what I do for work.
“I’m a writer,” I begin, “so I’m fairly sedentary. But I do try to—”
His eyes flicker up, suddenly interested, and I notice the copies of his shitty vanity-press monograph stacked around the office, bad Photoshop cover and all.
He cuts me off. “A writer, eh?” He leans forward in his leather chair. “Tell me—who is your publisher?”