How do you know a story is done? Or if not a “story,” a piece of writing—your flash fiction, your novella, your book. How do you know when it’s a ready, submission-worthy, finished piece?
Reading the classics in high school, and even in college, I had this underlying assumption that every poem, every novel, was complete. That it was “perfect.” At some point, the author lifted the quill off the page, fingers off the typewriter, and knew: “it’s finished.” Maybe recognition of genius would take time. But the piece of writing was now all it was ever meant to be.
After two years of writing and submitting my own short stories, I don’t think that anymore.
This January, I emailed a publisher to confirm the status of “The Blue Wall,” a past submission. I submitted this short story about an eldritch entity residing in an accent wall over a year ago. Surely the story had been rejected—I just wanted confirmation before updating my records.
Turns out… they wanted the story! I’d beat them to the acceptance email.
Halfway through a round of table-top celebrations, though, I panicked. After I submitted, I’d edited that story. I caved (caved hard) after four or five rejections and went back into the “finished” story. I started polling friends: “Should I ask the publisher if they’d like to see the new version, the ‘more finished’ draft?” And I also assessed the damage.
One “Compare Documents” merge on Word showed a sea of red changes.
RED. Walls of red. I hadn’t just tweaked “The Blue Wall.” I’d re-written it. But as I looked as the two copies . . . I was floored to find that the first one was better. Shit, so much of the first one was just objectively better.
Why hadn’t I known that the previous draft was “done?” Or was it done, really? Is that draft done now that it’s going to be published? Some of the later-draft changes might’ve been improvements, but which ones? My brain is still sizzling with the strain of trying to figure this out.
When you fry eggs, yolks are best left a little runny, right?
Maybe writing is like that? Never really “done.” Just cooked enough that it’s still a little fluid, a little fresh. Maybe “done” is a bad thing, because with writing, “done” is overdone. Rubbery and way too dry for toast.
Sizzle. Sizzle.
If anybody has any answers, or just commiserations and empathy, share away. I’ll be over here wringing my hands before I click “submit” on what may or may not be finished.
