"It was agony to drag herself away from Lord Love, now that the climax of his story was so near, the shape of it all spread out before her; Alvey felt an absolute contradiction of impulses, she wanted to write and write and write, scribbling, skipping, condensing, abbreviating, because the exhilaration and joy of shooting down the last breakneck slope was so very intense; on the other hand, she did not know how she was going to bear the parting from her loved characters, and she could see this severance approaching with fearful speed. Still, she thought, I'll at least have the pleasure of working through it again, making a fair copy, and improving as I go; in a way, that will be almost the best part, for the the worry of creation, and the pain, will be over, it will be just embellishment and improvement.
She felt hollow, estranged, almost light-headed. She had finished her book. What in the world shall I ever do now? she kept asking herself. The book had occupied less than a tenth of her real time, but the idea, the presence of it had been with her so continually, for so long, that she felt unbalanced, as if she had lost a leg."
--Deception/If I Were You, Joan Aiken