I made a mistake a few months ago. I was chatting to my publisher and he asked me how the writing was going. I told him it was going great, and that you can always tell when the writing is going great because I invariably am writing more of everything. I blog more, I email more, I scribble in my notebooks more and, of course, I write the book more. The urge to pound out prose doesn't stick to one particular project; words spill out onto everything. It's a nice feeling.

Of course, since that little chat, I've not blogged or written very much of anything. He's not asked me about progress on the book since then either. He can easily check this blog and the wine blog and see ever-lengthening time between updates and surmise that there's been a bit of a lull. It means I don't have to stammer out excuses, at least.

I can't attribute the lull to any one particular thing. It's a convergence of scattered bits and pieces that drag my fingers away from the keys and my pens. Some good things; I finally signed my publishing contract for the new top secret book that will be revealed imminently. Some bad things that will go unmentioned here, but cause me to furrow my brow and sigh with all the world's weight when I think no one is listening.

I'm in Scotland at the moment, until Sunday. The cat's good company and the weather's almost summer-like. I know so few people here now that it's easy to hide and write. The lull's retreating, and hopefully the words will return.