I often joke with friends that if you donāt finish what you start, youāll end up with a trail of half-eaten sandwiches around the house.
I donāt remember where I first heard this analogy for unfinished work, but itās such a vivid image that itās stuck with me all these years. Can you imagine how messy your home would be if every discarded idea lay on the floor, cluttering up your space?
I know for me, it would mean trudging through mounds of detritus, some tiny specks of dust, some true dust bunnies. Others would be larger, mean and angry, like broken furniture, all sharp and crooked, just waiting to catch my leg and leave a deep gash.
We donāt want that.
So Iām careful with what I entertain. When I have what I think is a solid idea, I open a Scrivener file, give it a title, and create a book journal. This journal is important: I use it to explain what the thought is about and why Iām writing it down. Manifestation is a powerful thingāI donāt do this unless I feel like the idea has real legs. I save this new project to a folder calledāquite originally, I might addāIdeas. Every once in a while, I run through them. A good 75% of the time, when revisited, the idea has faded away. Which tells me it wasnāt that good to start with. The ones that are still as vivid and exciting as the day I put them in the file, those are the ones that I think long and hard about starting.
Because if I start a story, I finish it. I refuse to allow myself to abandon a project once itās underway.
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That sounds harsh, Iām sure. That Iām lashing my Muse to the prow of the ship and heading into dark waters with hurricane warnings ahead. And yes, sometimes, thatās how starting feels to me. A journey into the heart of darkness, with no idea of whether what lies ahead will be good, bad, or something in between.
But when I sit down to write a story, be it a short or a novel, I do so with a commitment to finish paramount in my mind.
Starting is hard. Finishing, though, is sometimes much, much more difficult.
Iāve been planning this blog for several days. I didnāt want to start it until I had a solid hour ahead in which I knew I could get it drafted. Today was the day. In one of those odd universe-timed moments, a friend wrote me right before I started with a question. Sheās been balls to the wall on deadline for the biggest book of her career. All sheās wanted for weeks is to Get. It. Done. Already.
And today, the day sheās going to finish, she woke up and had the most jarring thoughtāthat she didnāt want to let it go.
This, I believe, is why finishing is so hard.
Her emotion is one I am intimately familiar with. Every time Iām nearing the end of a story, I have the same sensation. For days, months, even years, in some cases, all Iāve wanted it to get the book done and off my plate. But when the moment presents itself, suddenly finishing doesnāt feel good. It feels too big. Too scary.
Finishing means your work will no longer be your own. To me, thatās a thousand times scarier than starting.
I believe this is why so many ideas are abandoned. Because when you finish, you have to let your work out into the world, where it will be judged. Weāre writers, and this is a subjective industry. Some people will love your story. Some will hate it. Thatās the nature of the beast.
The trick is to not let the beast slay you before youāve even put the food in its maw.
All well and good, JT, you say. So tell me how to finish.
You just do.
You throw away your fear, you swallow the bile that rises at the thought of someone else reading your words, and you finish. And I donāt mean just putting an ending together and calling it done. Youāve spent all this time creating a brilliant story, why would you rush and throw something together so you can type The End? You wonāt be happy, and neither will your Muse, and she wonāt hesitate to let you know it.
No. Never that. You must be brave. You are a hunter. You must march deliberately into the darkness, your torch held high, and tap into your reckless abandon. That is the bait for the monster you must slay. Because all endings are monsters, and they do not like confidence, or excitement, or serenity.
When you find that perfect (or not so perfect) ending and wrestle it onto the page, crushing the biggest monster of all, two things will happen.
1 ā You will have the incredible satisfaction of knowing you gave it your best (which is the psychological component you must overcome when finishing, because I heard the voice in the back of your mind sayāBut if this is my best, and people donāt like it, I will shrivel up and die in a cornerāto which I say, bosh, no you wonāt).
2 ā You will experience something I like to call ācreative satisfaction.ā
Creative satisfaction is elusive and shy. She wonāt come when called, and she will never show up willingly. She only pokes out her head when youāve exhausted yourself, a balm for your wounds. She nestles next to you like a loving cat, tells you how fabulous you are for being brave, and gives you a sweet kiss on the forehead, one youāll feel when the next new idea comes along. Real creative satisfaction fills you up, and gives you the strength to do it all over again.
But if you donāt finish, and finish strong, youāll never find her.
Finish what you start. Find that ritual that tells the world youāre finishing (mine is donning my ragged old Harvard T-shirt. When I have it on, thatās a signal to the universe that today is finishing dayāand I do it for every project!) and just get it done. Because I know you can do it, and do it well.
Write hard, my friends.
