Off to the pub tonight, with lots of things I can't talk about. Like the new Dr Who, I tell myself.
Since getting back from Bristol I've begun writing up something I can't talk about, started a big, new project I can't talk about, been okayed for something I can't talk about, and invoiced for something I can't talk about. Yet. And there's a whole load of stuff of mine coming out in the next few months, and I shouldn't be talking about any of that yet, either.
This, of course, is where the Internet is a dangerous temptation. And having a blog even worse. I have to content myself with sharing my secrets with the wife and cat. Lucky them.
At least I'm not alone in this. I guess it's a Writer Thing that you only talk about Old Stuff, while anything you're actually doing (and interested in) is embargoed until months after you've handed it in and forgotten all about it.
Sharing details of these top secret projects with those in the same boat doesn't lighten the load, either. Oh no. It's not just that it means shouldering more salacious details that can't be passed on, I'm also terribly envious of what they've got out in the world just now...
Eddie Robson, for example, is similarly writing things he can't talk about yet. Still, I found out today he has his own blog, which is typically brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do. And I should be collecting his new book on Film Noir tonight, which I did proofing duties on and so have already read. And it's brilliant, sharp and better-than-what-I-do, too. Damn him.
Matthew Sweet is also writing something he can't talk about yet. But he's on the telly next week dishing dirt. And in the Times today, and all that sort of thing. Gah!
And Joe Lidster is writing things not to be spoken of, and said he'd kill me even for the merest mentioning. So that's just between you and me, eh?