And what do you do?

When we go on holiday Dr H and I always suggest to each other that we’ll try to keep quiet about being doctors, because it seems to alter the way people speak to us. It can certainly change what they decide to share with us about their own lives, but that’s a blog subject in its own right. Anyway our plan often doesn’t work and of course if someone is taken ill we cannot stand back and even though we’re now retired, we soon give the game away. In other situations, if we hear criticism of the NHS or of fellow clinicians, we find ourselves leaping to their defence (even though we can often find fault in the service ourselves). By the end of a holiday the secret will inevitably have come out – after all it’s who we are.

I now have a new dilemma when it comes to the question, ‘and what do you do?’ Do I say I’m a writer? Do I announce I’ve written three novels alongside several short stories (and some travel writing) or does that sound like showing off? Am I still too much of an indie amateur to advertise myself? ‘Imposter syndrome’ strikes all too easily and I can be reticent and hold back about my own writing when I see fellow passengers reading books by established authors on a plane or a train, as was the case on a recent Great Rail Journey trip to Norway.

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Norway’s Flåmbahn

Of course if a conversation turns to books in a more general way, I love to share the  appreciation of books I have read. If a connection then grows I sometimes slip it in that I am an author myself, whilst making apologetic remarks about shameless marketing. Generally I am delighted then at how intrigued people can be. I usually have a few calling cards in my wallet, but in Norway last week I ran out, so had to scribble my name and the title ‘Lawn House Blues’ on scraps of paper. It’s hard to find a professional balance in these situations but I imagine a few folk might google me and the book, and maybe even buy it.

We returned home to find a pile of post on the doormat and amongst the usual circulars and bank statements I found an envelope posted from France. Inside was a lovely card from an ex-patient who had moved to live there some years ago. My name apparently had come up in conversation recently when a mutual contact visited and she was told that I had retired from practice and now wrote books. She thanked me for the support I had given her in the past as her GP and told me she had downloaded all three novels. She really enjoyed ‘There’s No Sea in Salford’, is half way through ‘How they met themselves’, and is really looking forward to ‘Lawn House Blues’. I’ll have to write back and tell the the last is the best and as with so many things one does get better with practise. She was a teacher so will understand.

Perhaps I need to shake off this ‘Imposter syndrome’ label and admit I’m a writer.

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