Can Non-Fiction Writers Write Fiction?

I'm asking for a friend...

Back in June, I flew to the south of France for a four-day long summer party. Some of you may remember that trip because I wrote about it here. To celebrate a big birthday my agent hired a chateau and invited all his writers to join him there for one, long sunny celebration.

It was bliss and would make a brilliant setting for some kind of murder mystery, death by quill or something like that. But look at my imagination running away with me again…

In the piece I wrote at the time, I told you about those four lovely days of drifting from the breakfast table to the sofas, to the pool, to lunch, trailing around medieval towns, in and out of bookshops and cathedrals and brocantes and all the time enjoying hours and hours of writerly chats.

I also wrote about how tiring it was, being ‘on’ for conversation all the time when we are usually such introverts – some of us complained that our jaws actually ached. But it was wonderful and perfect, and just the right amount of socialising before we hermit crabs could rustle back into our shells.

But one thing surprised me about the conversation