I have talked quite a bit about knowing what you want to write, how you want to present it, and what constitutes a completed project. There is no definitive way to know when a work is completed - especially a written piece - because there are plenty of stages that go beyond the actual writing. Editing, redrafting, incorporating different ideas - these are all considerations that come with the process of making a creative work come to life, and it doesn't matter if it's an epic saga or a haiku. They all require hard work, a lot of thought, often some second-guessing, and knowing when it's finally done.
Surprisingly, however, that's not what I want to discuss in this piece. There's a gap between when you finally say, "Done! That's it! Finished!" and when you are able to appreciate your final product. It's a mental debriefing, a post-mortem of sorts where you shift from the position of creator and you get into the space of consumer. At some point, you should be able to look at something you made and simply appreciate the work in front of you for exactly what it is. At that point, you will feel the appreciation of "The Finished Product."
I say this because I recently closed the files on two big projects, and incidentally, I didn't write a word for either of them. I had the privilege of offering advice to Ciara Ward with her new book, Cliché Your Way Through Life: Remix, and just received an inscribed copy of the hardcover. I got to hold in my hands something that I had viewed through the eyes of a copy editor, as a beta reader, and as an objective critic. However, now I see the finished work and all the work she placed into it, and I can appreciate what she created from the position of being a consumer of the written word. In theory, I could look through the book, pick out a chapter, and recall us sitting down to discuss some structural detail. However, those moments are in the past. I can look at this book strictly with a sense of quiet awe about what she created. It's humbling indeed.
The other book is, Our House At The Lake by Sylvester "Lenny" Kapocius. I have mentioned Lenny before - he didn't start writing until the age of ninety, yet still published the story of his life in the Pacific Theater during World War Two. This is his second book, more of a personal memoir, and I just put the wraps on the final edits. Now I can look at this book, and I no longer think about the red ink I smeared over countless pages of copy (along with his son, who also read through it and gave it the red-pen treatment). I think about Lenny's accomplishment of writing a book, completing such a large task to pass on through the generations. I don't see my editing contribution, I see the work of this writer now in my hands. (Incidentally, Lenny turned 100 in January. Age isn't a reason to say you can't start writing.)
I bring all this up because that moment, that time of holding the final copy in your hands, is unlike anything you will be able to perceive while you are creating something. As you build something, you may have a vision of what it will look like after all is said and done, but the real goal should be seeing that moment when you can hold that product in your hands, no longer worry about the editing, rewriting, and so on. It should be a special moment to you, and one you always want to reach.
That's when you know it's done.
