I spent twelve happy years (1988-2000) writing my first novel. I gave the book the decade of my twenties. I made sacrifices, like not finishing my master’s degree and holding off on finding a decent job — all so I could work on the book.

Once I had a draft that felt finished, I didn’t know what to do next. I knew the book had flaws (all novels are flawed; the trick is to make the flaws awesome), and the temptation to start rewriting was always present.

The only way I found to stop was to break up with the book. Stop writing. Start thinking about working on new books. Hope that in time the allure will fade.

It worked. I never went back.

Then something happened. The novel was selected for publication. That meant spending months working on rewrites, and after the book came out, doing readings and tours. Like I said in the heading, these felt like spending too much time with an ex. Squirmy, uncomfortable, my heart not in it. To the rest of the world, novelist and novel look like a happy couple. The book was new to everyone else, but for me, I had moved on and was into my next novel.

The problem is after a few books, the break ups get more tiresome. Maybe there’s a better way to break with the writing process?