I could theoretically write some more now. And I might. Or I might put fresh sheets on the bed.
I'm transitioning, I think. It's slowly seeping into my reptile brain, even through the Puritan Work Ethic and the subclinical OCD, that this writing thing is something that, with a little luck, I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. And that means that not only do I not have to get ALL THE STORIES OUT NOW before they get away, but, in fact, it would probably be wiser to pace myself so that I don't burn out, burn up, or freak out and run screaming into the wilderness.
So, you know. The rewrite isn't finished. The rewrite, in fact, probably has 25K of additional New Words to be added, and a complete gutting of the last hundred and fifty pages of the book, and it'll probably take me most of March to do it. And you know, I think I'm okay with that. Because really, if I'm going to be doing this writing thing for a living, I think it makes sense to learn--to train myself--to enjoy the process and not just the completion. Or I'm going to spend the rest of my life with the uncomfortable sensation that a succession of small animals are burrowing out of my guts.
And, you know. Life is too short too work yourself to death.