So, last night, I completed my second basic draft of my novel.
Strangely enough, I don't really feel any sense of accomplishment for having done so. More than anything, I just kind of feel mentally tired from it. I mean, I know I tried hard, and I know that I made some good changes, but from what I can tell, completing a second draft doesn't feel at all like completing a first draft.
The other thing about it is that it sort of makes me not want to even think about writing for a good long while, now. The inherent difficulty of novel writing seems to have just accentuated the inherent difficulty of writing, period, and so the prospect of working on even a short story, right now, seems very daunting.
It's kind of like how I imagine I'd feel if, for two months straight, I'd been forced to eat chicken parmesan for dinner every night—every night, chicken parmesan, unable to stop until the big huge freezer I had was empty—and then, when I'm finally done, the next night I get offered chicken tetrazzini. Sure, technically, it's different and it's a change of pace, but the last thing I want at that point is more chicken.
Maybe (hopefully) this is all just some predictable writerly malaise. I'd hate to have to feel this way for long. Especially since I still have a lot of work to do.