Image via WikipediaIt's official. I can't even look at the damn' book. I've tried, tried to work on edits, to hone the synopsis, to dive in and really get to grips with those all-important goings-over, tightening this scene, fleshing out that character and doing all the tidying up you need to do with a newly-written first draft of a book.
It's a bit like finishing off a building - snagging, getting the protective gypsum off the floors, tidying away all the rubbish and maybe tweaking the plumbing a bit so that hot water actually comes out of the hot taps before getting outside and working on the landscaping and other stuff that makes a house a home - including moving in the furniture.
Except I can't face it. I'm sick of it, of the sight of it. I don't care. The characters suck, the plot bores me. The whole thing is a cobbled-together mess. I can't bear to look at it.
I think I have post-literary depression.