I’ve been writing for ten days straight. A ghost in my own house. I exist only for coffee in the morning and whiskey at night.

But it’s Sunday afternoon, and I stop. Why? Because draft number two is complete. Pending a read-through, the structure is there. Sure, there are bits of prose to polish and minor inconsistencies to iron out, but this is it.

I step out of my writing room—aka the spare bedroom—blinking in the afternoon light. Tears stream down my face before I even realise it.

“The fuck’s up with you?” my significant other says.

“I just said goodbye to some people,” I reply.

She shrugs. “Wanna watch Moana with your son?”

I do not.

I researched this. It’s a common phenomenon: post-draft depression. Writer’s emptiness. Creative comedown. I like that phrase. It fits.

We create these worlds, immerse ourselves so deeply that they’re more real than our surroundings. Faces only we know. Conversations only we hear.

I can see why people write sequels. Although this one isn’t getting a part two.

It’s been a long time since I wrote anything substantial. Did I feel like this before? I can’t remember. What’s changed? Has middle age softened me? Am I just exhausted? Or is this my first symptom of some terminal illness?

Then I concluded—completely unfounded, of course—that I feel this way because what I’ve written is good. I should be feeling like this. If I’m not, then maybe what I’ve written doesn’t have enough heart.

Now, all I want to do is keep writing.

And now I understand why Stephen King took so much coke. I don’t need more words. I need more hours in the day.

On a completely unrelated subject, I feel like taking up smoking again.