Don’t write a novel

Two years ago, when I was busy escaping reality daily through alcohol-induced oblivion, I was sitting in a Moscow bar, chatting away with two women. Both were blond, wore Zara clothes, and smelled of the same perfume. I had trouble telling them apart. “Is it true that most journalists want to write a book?” one asked. I couldn’t tell who it was. A moment ago, they asked me what I did for a living, and I replied — with a sly smile — that I am a British-Russian journalist on a special assignment in Moscow.

I thought deeply about that question. I know that I wanted to write books. I also know that…