I just finished my seventh revision of the manuscript I wrote two years ago.
At least I think I finished it.
Ay, there’s the rub–I don’t know when to tell when a piece of writing is finished. Every time I think it’s done, my brain slaps me with another possible change. A new scene. A better ending. New dialogue. And so, being a slave to that gooey gob of neurons, I delve back into the digital pages to improve the story.
NO MORE, BRAIN–I’m putting my foot down! I just need to reread those additions I made to the ending…
I’d like to think this is a good sign. A sign that I’m rising out of the swampy water of writer amateurism. I remember reading some quote once along the lines of, “A piece of writing is never finished–it’s just due” (I’m too lazy to Google the source). At the time–I think I was still a student–I was like, “No way. This paper is five paragraphs long. It’s FINISHED.”
While I now understand this sentiment, it’s hard to apply it when you’re working on something without a deadline. No agent or publisher or admiring public is itching for this book. It’s just me. Pulling words out of my head. Crafting a story that nobody wants (yet). I guess I need to make my own deadline.
And just let it go.