It's been a bitter-sweet week of writing flavours, but happily ending with a very satisfying pudding.
I finally finished the edits on my young adults book. That's a source of pride and achievement, of course, but also sadness.
I tend to fall into a pit of glummery at the end of a major project and this week was no exception.
It's like the end of a long term relationship. You're together and happy for so long, even through the ups and downs, and then...
So I've been doing some moping and missing the book, which lasted for much of the week, until I got fed up and decided to kick myself out of it.
The best way to do that, in my humble view...
Is to find yourself a new mountain to climb (this is Dunkery Beacon, on Exmoor, a treasure of my beloved south west.)
That's how I've come to see writing. Each new book, or story, or whatever you're working on, brings its own climb of challenges.
And when you're done with one, there's just the single, sole remaining option to lift yourself from the resulting slough.
In my case, being me, and greedy, I've found myself two - an outline for a writing themed pantomime (Oh, yes I have) and ideas for the next novel in my young adults' series.
And that's one of the great joys of writing. There are so many mountains to climb.
When I got a tad bored with crime fiction novels, I wrote a play... then a few short stories... then a young adults' book.
And happily, working my way through each was as wonderful an experience as the joyful view from Dunkery Beacon.