Having spent the past few months working on two books, both series novels, either writing, researching or editing, I've just come to... well, a junction. That's the point where I've finally torn myself away from the temptation to fiddle with just a few more words here and there and the submissions have been made to agent and editors.
The rest is in the lap of the gods. (That's not the agent or editors I'm talking about - they're way more important).
Not that I'm without things to do. I have articles to write and other deadlines to meet, as well as considering the next book projects. But it's like the quiet after the storm, where suddenly I don't have to switch on the PC as soon as I wake up, or read a few pages of the latest manuscript or rip out my own teeth as I wrestle with an unwilling chapter.
And it's all a bit discombobulating.
Do I start writing something else right away? (Don't feel like it).
........ go for a long walk? (Don't feel like it... although I should).
.........catch up on a couple of DVDs on the TBW pile? (Tempting... but so decadent).
.........catch up on my expenses record? (Definitely don't feel like that).
.........go out and fix the shed roof? (Can't. It's raining - thanks, Met Office, for getting it so badly wrong yet again. Sunshine all day, you promised - and we've got stair-rods!)
.........do some promotional work? (Don't... )
.........or should I write an angry letter to my MP just for the hell of it and because he's there? (Hell, no. I'm not that desperate).
The net result is what I believe nautical folk call the doldrums. I have as much enthusiasm as a dead sloth and a similar amount of direction. I've been up and down stairs at least a dozen times in a couple of hours, made several mugs of tea (for myself as well as the builder doing some remedial work on the roof), checked my social meedja sites, ditto Amazon rankings, taken a selfie which freaked me out - Christ, is that what I look like close-up? - stroked the cat several times, eaten far too many wine gums and generally wandered about the place like Marley's Ghost.
I haven't started kicking the furniture yet but it's been a close-run thing... and my wife, Ann, is watching. She's got a worried look on her face, although she has witnessed this kind of writerly situation before and will only take action if I start doing weird stuff. (I've currently got a rubber band around my head and am flexing my eyebrows and hairline waiting for it to works its way up and flick into the air. But I don't think she's noticed it yet).
The next thing might be to push one corner of a cushion in and put it on my head like a hat.
You've never tried it? Oh, you should - it's great... although I think it's a boys-only thing, don't ask me why.
There. I feel better already.
(P.S. My wife, Ann, made the cushion. Neat, huh?)