I realized as I was talking to a friend last night that there must be some chemical shift in the brain when a writer finishes writing a book. How else to account for the sudden, uncontrollable deflation of spirits? I am working as hard as I can to replenish that chemical. I'm running every morning, splitting firewood, starting to revise older writings, reading and reading, keeping up with my mothering schedules, playing band gigs, buying a few new items of clothing. . . . It all helps; it all helps. But at the same time I just feel stupid. I should be relieved and triumphant; but when it comes to this manuscript, all I can do is wince and expect the worst.
This happens every single time I finish a book. At least I'm not surprised any more. At least I've talked to enough other writers to know that I'm not a freak. It's the usual thing. Probably even people who make money go through it. Probably Stephen King stares gloomily at the ceiling and bites his nails. The situation would be comic if it weren't real.
Anyway, here's hoping your day is cheerful and productive.