Just when I thought it was safe to put my long-delayed book on the front burner, comes this devasting news: J.K. Rowling is writing a crime novel. This information comes to the Washington Post by way of Ian Rankin, who said his wife spotted Rowling at work on the new project in Edinburgh.
“It is great that she has not abandoned writing or Edinburgh cafes,” said Rankin, barely concealing his own fear.
Talk about bad timing. At this point Rowling could pen 900 pages of bad haiku and sell a million copies — why must she suck all the air out of crime-fiction manor just when I’m trying to break in? (Yes, in answer to your next question: It is all about me.)