Writing the final pages of my current MS is a real slog. How many more loose ends are there, for goodness sake? But I keep on finding them. This story sheds threads like irritating fibres from a mohair sweater.
Question to self: Why are you putting yourself through all this? Even deprived of your novel, the world will keep right on turning. Find another interest, why don't you?
Answer: Because I can't. I don't want to quit writing. It makes me happy--in a snappish and snarly kind of way.
The highs are just amazing. Those rare sweet days when the words come tumbling out are my shot in the arm. It's a short flight, but it's pretty damn spectacular while it lasts.
Then comes the crash...then another uphill slog...jump off the edge and I'm flying again. :D
Of course, I can quit any time I like. *sniff* I just don't want to. Not really.