Writing a novel can become tortuous. It has its own rhythm, like for instance working long hours for several days before coming to a complete stop. Like turning into robotic version of yourself that interacts with others in predetermined patterns and phrases, not always in the correct way. The trouble this strange version of yourself can put you in is immeasurable. But I won't get into that as much as want to.
Principles and determination. Hard as it may appear you know that somewhere at the end of this arduous journey lies a reward. It is the natural way of things, how life gives back only after it takes. The satisfaction that you have finished something big... for you first and then for all the other companions/friends/family that you've gathered during your previous journeys.
With that in mind and probably still too disoriented to write whatever it is I'm writing right now, I finished working on the 2nd Act of the Servant of the Princess. Two down, one more to go.
Oh boy.
