Okay, maybe this is a little bit specific. But anyway, it's a real thing, a sort of 'creation fatigue'. Your mind wants to create something and you're all inspired and fired up with ideas and then... it's like the original inspiration dies away and you still want to make something, but the original something you started just looks all limp and sad and not something you'd want to hang a spider plant in. Or something.
|This is fine, but you couldn't hang it in your window, could you?|
That. Only with books.
Writing away, everything going smoothly. Then the first gritty little bits start to get into the works. The wheels start making clunking noises and, in some extreme cases, fall off. Your characters behave badly or have 'creative differences' with the other characters and go off to start their own book. Outside the sun is shining, and you are incarcerated in the dark, damp depths of your living room trying to squeeze the last ounce of creative spark out of your tired and limp brain.
And then the 'creativity demons' creep in.
'Look...' they whisper, while you suck the end of your pencil and stare at your computer with decreasing levels of hope. 'You want to make something? Why not go into the kitchen? You can be creative with cookery instead...'
So you lay down your manuscript and wander into the kitchen, thinking possibly no further than a cheese and avocado sandwich with Marmite (because that's as creative as you can get at the moment), and then there is a sudden CLICK and you find you are melting chocolate and grating lemon rind and becoming a kind of cheap version of Nigella only without the clothes sense and the overt sexuality.