“I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged.”
—ERICA JONG
Some writers have commitment problems.
When I first started writing seriously, I chased ideas like a dog in heat. It was part of the learning phase, and I let myself experiment. I wrote short stories, blogs, articles, and essays. I wrote romance novels. Young adult. I wrote cards I thought I’d sell to Hallmark, and poetry that was so awful even my mother had to break the news to me.
Many projects were scattered around me, abandoned in notebooks, and filed away in folders full of Word documents. Eventually, though, I grew up and wanted to submit and publish my stories. I realized I needed to finish projects with regularity and spend time and effort caring for a story, rather than ditching it at the first sign of trouble.
Writers tell me all the time they don’t need to finish a story or a piece. They enjoy writing what they want, when they want it, and if the interest is there, then they’ll finish it. Or not. I know writers who wrote first books for a series and decided to never follow through with the rest of the series because another project caught their eye. I’ve seen writers announce that a new blog post will be available on a certain date, only to log on at that time to find their latest post was weeks ago. I’ve watched writers pitch a billion ideas with blurbs and outlines, and never deign to actually finish one story.
Personally, I think the failure to follow through is one of the biggest mistakes a writer can make. Sure, the new, exciting story in the forefront of your mind is shiny. It’s bright and virginal and full of possibilities. You catch your wandering eye straying from your current manuscript, which, right now, is not pretty. Your current manuscript is familiar. It’s boring. It’s the DUFF—Designated Ugly Fat Friend—to the newfound, hot story that’s brewing in your mind. It feels like you’ll be stuck with the current story forever, and honestly, it’s not what you initially signed up for. You thought this time would be different. This time, you’d love your current manuscript so damn much, no pretty little temptress would get the best of you.
Yet here she is. Strolling in with a naughty wink and endless pages of blinding white space. It’ll be so much better if you make the leap and leave your current ball and chain. You can get out of it. It’s not like you promised your soul to the devil on this one! No sir, this new book is going to be the one. You swear.
You jump. Maybe you’re a quarter through your “old,” current manuscript. Maybe even halfway—where the middle has been killing you, slowly and tortuously. Finally, with this new idea, you can breathe. The muse has sprung to life at the promise of a new story, proving you made the right decision.
You quickly dive in, maybe draft an outline or write a spectacular beginning. Chapter one is the best chapter you ever wrote in your life. The best. Disney birds are singing, and the glass slipper finally fits. Chapter two roars past, and you’re still riding high. But by chapter four, uh, things have slowed.
You tell yourself not to worry. Maybe go back to the outline. Maybe if you dig a bit deeper you’ll rediscover the magic. The dating. The sex. Oh, God, the sex! It can’t be over so soon, can it? Can it?
This time, you don’t even get to the middle before you falter. The words begin to trickle instead of flow. You lose your motivation, you hate your hero, and stupid things are happening for no reason. This book sucks. You should have stayed with the first one. You could have whipped it into shape, but now you’re stuck. It’s too far gone to go back to your original manuscript. You grit your teeth, swear you’ll get through it no matter what, and then you catch a glimpse of something so shiny, you stumble and stop. It looks like diamonds and gold and pearls all blended together in a blinding, beautiful vision.
“What is this?” you ask. Slowly, you turn your head. And it’s over. A new idea just tempted you once again, and the cycle continues.
For God’s sake, guys, finish the damn book.
Sometimes marriage really sucks. You don’t have sex nearly as much, and kids make you tired and cranky. You’re done with romance, flowers, and surprises. Hell, if your spouse cooks dinner or does laundry you have an orgasm. But underneath the grit and daily grind of life, there’s a love that keeps you going. You get each other. Yeah, it’s hard, and some days are better than others, but occasionally you catch your spouse’s eye, or share a laugh, or tease him in the only way he’d understand, and the magic is there. It’s real magic, too, not fake. It’s magic based on a hell of a lot of work overcoming failure, ups and downs, and respect.
Sign me up.
In the beginning, books are like affairs, because excitement drives you forward. But the deeper you get into the book, the more you discover hidden problems.
The conflict wasn’t pressing enough. The spark between the hero and heroine was electric, but they can’t seem to have a meaningful conversation. The secondary characters are cardboard, without real emotion. You bump along and hit the potholes, and you’re forced to stop and examine the road. Did you go the right way? Should you have turned left at the corner instead? Will you run out of road before the planned trip is over?
This is the serious stuff you need to deal with to make a great book. By the time you near the finish line, you’ll fall back into a full love affair. The kids are grown, you’re retired, you’re rich, and you finally get time to yourself. You see the threads coming together, and you can soar to the end.
Giving up too soon is dangerous. If you chase the shiny, new idea each time, you lack staying power and you won’t be able to write a full, meaningful book because you only write the easy parts. How can you create a proper character arc without some degree of growing pains for your characters? And for yourself?
Now, I’m not saying your book sucks if there aren’t bumps or bruises. Some books are just gifts. But if you’re jumping ship each time you encounter problems, you need to look at your motivation.
New writers: Finish the book you’re working on. It’s the only way to find out that you can do it again. It’s a way to earn your Scout badge and to show you have the perseverance needed in a world that may eventually rip your heart out and do a happy dance all over it.
One of the most beautiful phrases I know besides once upon a time is the end.
Pick the story that pulses in your gut. Then do everything in your power to finish the book. Even if you realize you made a mistake. Even if you realize it’s a sucky book, it won’t sell, or you’ve suddenly lost all interest.
Finish the book. Then make your decision to revise or move on to the next one.
A story unfinished is a sad thing. It screams of potential not realized. It sobs with what could have been. Stories need closure, for readers and the writer. Since you are the only one to see this story, do what needs to be done.
Finish the damn book.
Have you ever quit on a book? A short story? An essay? A poem? Why? Do you regret it, or did your decision to begin a new project prove helpful? Assess your body of work and how often you quit. If you feel like it’s damaged your career, make an intention to finish something completely—good or bad. Your Muse needs to know what it’s like to type “The End.” Stories need closure. So do writers.