"This is my novel. I found it in the street outside my house. It had been out drinking again."
My novel doesn't look like that, but I think I do.
I'm near the end now and, in a desperate attempt to be free of it, I've taken advantage of the upcoming school holidays and made what will be a week and a half off to finish the fucking thing. Come Thursday, the blog will probably shut down till it's done, and if you see me replying to email, talking to you, or playing video games at any time that isn't one am in the morning when I'm brain dead, some gentle abuse will not be appreciated, but likely needed.
After four novels, I can now say this the hate I feel now is the normal course of events, as will the sadness I feel once it's finished and I have a big empty hole in my life where a book once was.
(The above sad, but very amusing photo comes from Andy Macrae (andrewmacrae).)