I’ve grown a bit of what can only be described as postpartum depression in regards to my novel. They weren’t lying when they told me the illusion of grandeur would wear off. They said time would slowly whittle down the book to mere ink on a page, no longer the dreams that I aspired to build . . . and they were right. Part of me despises it now and holds it in contempt. I’m ready to move on–start my next big thing–but, much like my like my ragged protagonist, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. I’ll finish this if it kills me.