Blank Pages in my Bathrobe

I am lost without my looming, wordy novel to keep me company. For the past three months, I sat for hours each day, talking with my characters, preferring the world they inhabited to my own. I created obstacles for them and myself. I transcribed their feelings and followed them on their journeys until, together, we approached the end. They carried on, dancing their way through their imaginary lives, and I stepped back. The lights faded out on the scene, and I faded with them.

Now I am my novel's disgruntled ex-lover, who feels that we broke things off long before our relationship ran its course. I sit around in my bathrobe, thinking about my novel, too depressed to get dressed because what's the point of the world anymore? How can I go on without a never-ending project to tinker with and perfect, picking at the novel's shortcomings and insecurities until our once-happy relationship is reduced to arguments and bouts of self-loathing?