The last days of the novel.
When all else falls by the wayside, and the author's world submerges into an endless staccato of typewriter keys, of overbrewed tea or burned old coffee saucered and blowed, for the need is too great, of Pat Benatar on autoplay over and over again. When sustenance consists of microwaved lukewarm Hamburger Helper forked untasted (thank God! for that mercy, that the human mind can only take so much) betwixt greasy trembling lips, and endless Galliano-and-Diet Vernor'ses, slurped half-consciously to ease the buzz of shaking hands. When the whine of hungry dogs and the cries of sobbing children go unheeded, and conversation is answered in grunts, and the only sane thing for the writer's spouse to do is nail up the study door and slip carefully rationed fifths of scotch and jumbo pepperoni pizzas under it--or leave the country, if he can.
When the endorphin-crazed writer cackles ass! It's all ass! and doesn't care, because the end of the draft flits enticingly beyond her fingers.
When the desperation-addled brain thinks, seventy-five pages. I could write that in three days, if I didn't pee.
Thank God, the end is near.
ETA: Felix, still an asshole. I know this will come as a relief to you all.