We have book. We have book delivered to beta-readers.
We have author, stuck in post-novel restlessness. (The ennui either hasn't hit yet, or has passed already in those last two nights I spent virtually comatose. Only time will tell.)
It's a strange, and largely useless, state of mind. I want to work on — and finish! finish! — everything I have. But of course I can't settle. And my focus is just slightly skewed. And I keep skipping back and forth, writing snippets out of order. (My writing peeps will be horrified. All their good work, trying to stop me writing scattershot, and here I am falling off the wagon. Again.)
I've been working on a short story I originally wrote in Octoberish last year. I've started revising it a couple of times since, but had to put it aside because it just wasn't settling right, somewhere inside my head. I don't know if today's efforts are more of the same or if they're working at last. I'm going to hope for the latter. Writers is nuts, and writing is nuts.
Also? It's the end of summer. My right arm is (slightly) tanned, and my left arm is not. Guess whose car windows aren't tinted?