I Think I'm Jealous...or Maybe It's Just Tight Pants
I just got an email from my day job that a very distinguished physician will be giving a lecture on campus, and will also be signing copies of his book, The Emperor of All Maladies. Naturally I rushed to find out about the book. As follows:
- it's a screaming success
- and was just copyrighted last year
- and has gotten rave reviews in the New Yorker, O the Oprah Magazine, The Washington Post among others
- was named one of the "ten best books of the year" by The New York Times
- and was written by a doctor
- a doctor?
- a d-o-c-t-o-r??
- is God joking or what?
Yes, the doctor is prestigious. But this is a book about cancer, man. Try to find a more depressing subject, I dare you. Just try. So, the way the publishing world works is: a doctor, who can't even write a legible prescription, gets an other-worldly book deal from a major publisher (Scribner) and the book is featured f*cking EVERYWHERE and the rich get richer. If I pitched a book about cancer to a publisher, I would be told, "Forget it, kid, who the hell wants to read a book about cancer?"
- it ain't fair
- what else is new
- I wanna be the doctor's ghost writer (hey, I'm not too proud for crumbs)
- to be honest, it's probably a great book
- I hear it's scholarly
- which turns off everyone but me, I read medical books to relax
- I'm probably going to buy this book
- and like it
- and that's just not fair.
Well...what the hell. At least the good doctor stuck to what he knows. When doctors start writing novels, I'm gonna start shooting. Or stab myself in the eyeball, it's the least I could do.
Maybe I could send the eyeball to the doctor, and he could fix it. And then I could write a book about it...oh, for heaven's sake.