I have never been able to talk about what I’m writing. What I have written, or wish I’d written, even perhaps what I might write one day – fine. All fine.

But if I say a single word about work in progress, even that there is some work in progress,  it will be like a balloon with a tiny pinhole; the life will leak out of it.

It means that I can’t contract for a book in advance; it also means not talking about my principal preoccupation; and it means that I have to go without the helpful advice that other writers get from each other.

I’m stuck; and I can’t shout for help.



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