How do we know when the work is done?

Stay tuned for new fiction

The other day I opened my email and two words stuck out. “Fiction Acceptance” in a message from Dunes Review.

It’s been three years since I’ve published fiction. Three years of focusing mostly on this newsletter, as well as on the book-length project I continue to push along.

The piece I submitted to Dunes Review is from several years back. Aspects of it thrill me, but I’m also not sure that it’s done. I expect it’ll become the start of a future longform project and I worry that the story as is does not coalesce.

Is it ready to be published? Is it ready to meet the world? I must have thought so when I submitted it in March. But now that more time has passed, I’m unsure.

A benefit of submitting to journals is the chance to work with an editor. That’s what Dunes Review offers, and part of why I agreed to go forward with publication. I want an editor’s eye and experience. At some point I reach the edge of what I can do alone.

How do we know when a project is done? How do we know when something is ready to be read, dissected, assessed?

I continue to hold my longform project tight. Although I shared excerpts with close readers early on, I wasn’t prepared for their feedback. The project needs to stick with me until I’ve created something that feels done enough to meet new eyes.

But still, how do we know it’s ready? How do we know when something precious is done?

I’ve relied for so long on external factors that my inner barometer is underdeveloped. I’ll experience diverging motives—a desire for attention, or praise, that pushes me to share.

On the other hand, I fear that, without external markers, a project may never be done. It’ll never feel ready because it is part of an ongoing body of work that morphs and develops alongside my voice.

The piece that’s going to Dunes Review may not be ready. It may later become a book-length story, of which this is a tease. If so, should I not share it? Does harm come from publishing too soon?

Then again, someone decided it was ready. Someone, possibly multiple people, decided it was worth including in their journal. Even if the piece resonates with just those few readers, I suppose that is reason enough.

In attempting to answer my question, there’s a difference between perfectionism—”is this the best possible version?”—and process—”am I ready to move this off of my desk?” My perfectionism will say that a thing is never done. I read old writing and wince at the punctuation, the run-on sentences, and the lack of conjunctions that mark what I now see as my insecurity around inhabiting the fiction form.

I see those things and at the same time recall that, at one point at least, I felt those pieces were ready. I wanted feedback, incorporated that feedback, and wanted the validation of putting written work into the world.

Hm. Perhaps the validation is where I’m misaligned. It begs a new question: not, “when is a thing done?” but instead, “what is my reason for putting it in the world?”

There are multiple answers. I like sharing my work because I like reading others’ work. I hope someone might find value in what I’ve expressed. On a darker side: I like sharing my work because I like getting credit for it. Recognition that, if I’m not careful, comes from a place of ego that can distort the more pure intentions.

I seek a balance between external validation and the inner furnace that compels me to create. The two are coextensive: I make the work in the hope of sharing it. But I can’t let the hope of how it’s received cloud my desire to make it.

A good editor can help hone my inner sense of what’s good. Of what’s done, at least enough to be ready to share. It’s hard to be both writer and editor. There’s a reason those roles are split. So I’m hopeful about the edits I’ll receive on this latest story. I’m hopeful that, together, we can make something ready to print.

Hope, Alaska. July 2023 on film.