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One problem with working at home is it's hard to tell when you're finished.

In a regular work environment, you get a "job well done" or a slap on the back or a new assignment. If nothing else, your shift ends and you go home and try not to think about work for a while.

But when you work at home, the completion of each task merely calls attention to other looming deadlines and to the chores you've been ignoring. You're still surrounded by housework and parenting and errands and the other parts of your "job" that never go away.

I, for one, don't handle downtime well. I seem to have two speeds: (1) flat-out, fast-as-I-can-go obsession, or( 2) full idle, in which I don't know what to do with myself. Switching back and forth makes me a little crazy.

I recently completed the first draft of a new novel. For nine weeks, I was consumed by the story, barely in touch with the real world. Phone calls went unanswered. Familiar faces went unrecognized. My mind wandered during conversations.

Over the past decade, my family has grown accustomed to this distracted condition. They call it Bookland. As in: "There's no point talking to Dad right now. He's in Bookland."

After two months of averaging 50 pages a week, I emerged from my home office, blinking and scratching like Rip Van Winkle, and tried to regain some focus on everyday reality. I found that, once again, my wife had kept the household running while I was in Bookland. Summer had arrived. My sons had grown taller.

I always take some time off after the first draft to let the manuscript "cool" before I start the onerous, months-long rewrite process. You'd think I'd relax during this break, return to my senses, have some fun.

Instead, I spiral right into the ground in a weird form of postpartum depression. I've given birth to a new story, and it'll no doubt grow up to be a disappointment, no matter how much I rewrite and revise and mutter curses.

This would be the perfect time for a distraction, something to divert my attention away from my own navel. I cast about for a diversion, only to find I have no interests or hobbies.

Household chores aren't enough to keep my mind off work. I love to read but end up comparing every book with the one I'm trying to write. I watch movies and see only the "bones" of the script. The Internet is just more time sitting at my desk.

I'm too fat and injury-prone for sports. Too impatient to go fishing. It's too hot for hiking. I haven't ridden a bike since I learned to drive. I could take a real vacation, I suppose, but traveling is expensive, and I travel too much for work already.

Other people have hobbies that take up their free time. But I'm not interested in collecting anything (except books) and I have no expertise or equipment for craft projects. Painting? There's a mess to clean up. Pottery? Ditto. Woodworking? No, thanks, I need all my fingers for typing.

So I wander around the house, mumbling and overeating and watching inane TV, until it's time to go back to work. Back to Bookland, a place of my own invention, where I know everyone's name.

I'll emerge next fall, summoned from Bookland by the sound of crashing deadlines.

Just in time to start a new project.