I stayed up until midnight last night finishing a read-though on Stolen in Paradise, my latest book, and then sent it to beta-readers (those intrepid souls who've agreed to have a whack at my first draft) at 12:01 a.m.
I hoped to feel good today. Triumphant even. I wrote another book! Even after a 55-hour work week, I finished the damn edit and ahead of schedule too!
Instead I woke up today feeling like poop on the bottom of a shoe. Mashed thin and really smelly, no resilience whatsoever, teary and stressed, in fact every bit like a postpartum new mother only without the baby to keep her occupied. Those of you who birthed babies, remember that saggy spongy feeling, like your empty uterus was going to fall out? Men, you will never have this dubious joy–but trust me, it's a real physical sensation.
That's what I feel like mentally.
Fortunately I've been through this before (3 other times) and like an experienced mother I know not to take myself seriously, that it will pass. It's okay to wander, and putter, and sit staring into space, feeling flat and exhausted, and struggle with word retrieval and people's names whom I've known for years.
Because, dammit, I just delivered a manuscript.
Anyone else relate to this?