Of course, on reflection I have also realised that the reason these books seem to get harder and harder to write - but on the upside the revisions get slightly less humungous - might be because my crap-o-meter is now so well developed I suffer the torments of hell before handing the book to my editor, instead of afterwards. Which is great for her, but maybe not so great for me - when I consider how many sleepless nights, how much shouting-at-kids and how many panic attacks I had over this story. But hey, that's a writer's life, right? It's exactly like being a teenager again, the extreme highs are all the more euphoric when compared to those extreme lows - those nights when you lay awake and think 'I hate these bloody characters', 'how did I ever do this before?', 'this book is total shite and it's never going to get any better'.
Or then again, maybe I'm just slightly nuts and it has nothing to do with being a writer...
Okay, enough with the reflection (and the discovery that I may have mental health issues!)... Now all I've got to do is write a one-thousand word epilogue that manages to tie up the many lose ends I left dangling during the story that I stupidly figured I'd handle in the epilogue. Way to go, Sherlock!
Why do I suddenly see several more sleepless night in my future?