I occasionally have to wonder if obscurity is a skill I've lost.

I don't know. I've worked so hard to be clear in my writing - to write fairly, if you like, though mind you, I don't know how well I succeed at that either - that I don't know if I'm capable of being crabby and secretive and mysterious like a da Vinci cabal member. So bark the con of man.

That's not to say I don't keep surprises up my sleeves, of course! Plenty of those.

I may need to work on what my brother calls "saying one thing and somehow managing to convey something completely different". Except I don't really like writing or reading things like that. It's too hard to judge whether you're laying easy clues to give a reader a delightful, solveable puzzle, or whether you're being a pompous ass. And whether, in a few (or few hundred) years' time, your clever references ("like the poor cat i' the adage") will mean a damn thing to anyone.

This post occasioned by my long-suffering inner Wiliam Shekspar. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a death scene to plan?