John C. Wright has the EXCLUSIVE details:
Before I left SWFA, the last sight I saw of the SWFA Mansion in New Jersey was the sight of Mr Martin diligently at work, his eyes red with lack of sleep, his typewriter smoking, steaming, and emitting sparks, nine ashtrays filled with cigarette and cigar butts and broken hoohaks heaped about it, bags of Frito chips not only empty but ripped open and the chip-dust licked dry, drained bottles of cheap claret smashed in the hearth in a glittering pile, dead elfs on the doorstep, wounded muses with threadbare wings struggling to escape the chimney, and meanwhile a horde of medical technicians from the ninth planet of Etamin inserting a needle into the major veins of his arm so that much needed nutriment and saline could reach his brain, since in his fury he had forgotten all mortal food or perhaps foresworn it.
I saw a lonely and hooded traveler on the road walking away from the SFWA Mansion (at first I took this to be someone disgusted by news that the writers guild now protected with their silence the filth and perversions of pederasts, but who, unlike me, could make no public denunciation), and, running after the silent, looming shape, asked in wonder if George RR Martin was hard at work writing the next book in his much-loved series.
Let the fans rejoice! At last!