Just got off the phone to a friend who finished his second novel a couple of weeks ago. He says he's in "post-natal depression" - he's mourning the loss of the bump that he's been carrying round for the past two years.
I'm jealous that he's finished, and quite happy to accept the possibility of a similar affliction just as long as I actually finish the damn thing. As of two weeks ago I have entered a self-imposed "cloistered period", though those around me will say that I seem to have a slightly loose definition of cloistered (I am certainly not living the life of a nun). I guess I mean that I'm trying not to book myself in for too many leisurely coffees, a lifestyle I have sadly gotten far too used to in the past year.
The thesis-cum-novel draft is due on 24th of this month, thus the lengthening lines on my forehead and the very slowly lengthening manuscript. It seems odd to think that I will be giving birth to a novel in three weeks, whether the birth is prematurely induced or not. Part of the reason it seems odd is that I'm still (at this late stage) trying to visualise what the foetus looks like, and even to figure out how many toes it will have. In the same way that you can't be completely sure if your baby will be normally formed/compatible with life until it is born, so I will not be sure until I can see it out in the open, unprotected from the outside world. Anyway, I will have no choice. Come the 24th three assessors will be reading my manuscript, ready or not. Arrrgghhh.