You were sitting on the subway, reading a book you'd picked up after a friend highly recommended it to you. It was a historical thriller, a Frederick Forsyth-esque spy story set during World War II. You normally didn't read books like this, but had decided to venture out of your comfort zone.

Admittedly, the book read like the literary equivalent of a spoilt teenage boy hailing from an old money family, who considered himself to be God's gift, but the plot was interesting enough for you to keep going. You also appreciated the compelling characters.

Overall, it wasn't really a bad book, but there was certainly room for improvement.

As you turned the page, you heard the man standing next to you, holding on to one of the handrails, clear his throat. "Are you, um, are you enjoying that book?" he asked curiously, with a glint in his eye that you couldn't quite place. He spoke in a British accent that felt like butter in your ears, and something about his crooked, yet genuine, smile was inherently charming.

Little did you know that you were speaking to the author of the book himself.