How it Feels to Finish a Project

There comes a time when you tick off everything on your revision to-do list and call the project “done.” It’s a moment of stunned exhilaration–a rush of excitement at crossing a self-determined finish line paired with a kind of disbelief that you made it.

Though none of us ever ends up creating exactly what we set out to create, with enough persistence our initial aims eventually reach some kind of target. And that happened for me last week. I finished my revisions for my non-fiction book.

It feels… strange. In part because other lists have been breeding in the background, all the what-to-do-next tasks, and there are plenty! But this moment arrives one day, a moment of completion. It’s as whole, clear, and delightful as a breath-blown soap bubble, rainbow-tinted, light, and… temporary. It must be savored.

I did reach the end of my revision list, but (as those who’ve been there know) I could easily keep adding more to it, keep striving for improvement. So how do I know I’m done?

Something subtle inside has shifted, and with it an awareness that a significant phase of work is complete. Paul Valéry is credited for saying, “A work is never completed, but merely abandoned.” (Fuller translated quote below.) And I can’t deny I have that feeling of wanting to give up and turn away from the project now. But it has a different quality than procrastination or resistance.

How do we trust this inner sense that something’s done? It’s a little like trusting a new friend or lover. We can’t be totally sure we’re right, but we go with it anyway, aware of our vulnerabilities but willing to see where this next stage takes us.

Done never means perfect. In fact, for a writer to complete a project, s/he has to have made peace with imperfection. Completion can never lead to perfection, but it can lead to value. And that’s what we should be aiming for. I can say, without a doubt, that the book I’ve finished isn’t perfect, but I believe it has value.

For creators of any kind, a desire to make things is underpinned by a desire to contribute value to the world in some way. We work on projects that matter to us, and we hope, one day, they’ll matter to someone else too.

I’ll keep you posted on my next steps as I proceed. For the moment, I am breathing a sigh of relief to be done (for now ).

My work involves coaching other writers on their paths to completion. Sometimes I play a large role and sometimes a very small one. I reached out a few writers I know who have recently finished first drafts or revisions and I asked them how they feel when they finish something. Here’s what they said:

Once I write the final sentence it feels as if I have returned home from a long trip. Happy to be back again but I know there lies ahead of me a good deal of unpacking, and laundry, before I can settle in again.

~ Bromme C., working title: When Soft Voices Die

Even after working on the book for over two years, the realization that it was finished seemed to come out of nowhere. I think of whipping cream by hand, you keep whipping and whipping you’re about to lose hope, suddenly there is the cream with perfect peaks. So many endeavors require a leap of faith. I was elated when I realize the book was done. That feeling stayed with me and helped push aside doubts as I started a new novel. It’s a short novella but I do think of myself differently now that I have finished it, and I see the book differently as well, as something that exists separate from me.

~ Melanie D., working title: People Who Love You

The lady at Staples handed six copies to me, 350 pages each bound with a blue cardboard front and back cover. They were heavy, but my spirit was light as I waltzed to my car carrying the manuscripts, the first draft of my first novel after five years. Now it’s out there, being read by my beta readers. I feel a liberated sense of achievement. I know I still have more work to do on it, but I’m motivated to return reinvigorated with ideas to, in the words of Paul McCartney, “Make it better!”

~ Ariela S., working title, Survival

When I finished my novel and sent the requested draft to an agent, I felt an incredible sense of both momentum and lightness. Finishing energy feels wholly different from starting a project and requires laser concentration, patience and kindness to self. Letting go of your story into the world requires humility and courage.

~ Elena K., working title: Spotlights and Shadows

Thanks for sharing such wise, personal insights. And congratulations to you all!! Can’t wait to see these stories in print!

Your ARE a talented Writer!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.I've been wondering if the idea of "talent" is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I'm embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.Go forth and develop your talent!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.

This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.

A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.

I’ve been wondering if the idea of “talent” is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.

Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.

Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.

“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?

Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I’m embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)

The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.

Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.

Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).

So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.

Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.

To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.

Go forth and develop your talent!

Chaos and Order

By the end of January most of us are either hitting a stride when it comes to moving toward goals or else we’ve abandoned them completely. The latter can leave some of us disillusioned and disoriented, and simply trying to keep our heads above water as the river of life carries us relentlessly forward. Often, we give in to the external momentum of demands and distractions (especially after a month of trials and failures) and our once hope-filled creative goals get washed away.

Perhaps you’re cruising right along with your goals and don’t need a pep talk yet, but for those who do, I want to explore the powers of chaos and order.

Life for most of us seems to swing pendulum-like between chaos and order. And creative people tend to hang on the chaos side of the pendulum.

We usually think of chaos in terms of mess, unruliness, lack of control, disorder and confusion. But chaos is also potential, mystery, inspiration, the unknown, the unformed—it’s the source of creativity.

So it makes sense that creatives lean toward chaos, but creative people especially need to find balance between these poles. We know this intuitively, and when we set goals in the New Year, we’re making a valiant attempt to order the perceived chaos in our lives.

It’s the creative person’s intention to harness the energy of chaos, to dance with it until something can be made of it, and that making requires establishing some kind of order in the process.

Order by itself is usually dry and dull, but it’s necessary for getting anything done (and more is required if you’re also after efficiency). Order is the yang to chaos’s yin. And yet, too much order and we feel tyrannized; too much chaos and we’re adrift in meaningless mayhem. We actually need both.

As writers, the order we aim for most of the time is in service to making space in which the chaos of the creative process can enter. For example, choosing the same time of day to write and the same location to write in sets up the kind of structure that the muse, that harbinger of inspiration, can depend on. Faulkner said, “I write when the spirit moves me, and the spirit moves me everyday.” Because he showed up everyday.

A willingness to set up an orderly schedule for your writing allows you to be wild and loose in the writing itself. If you’re wild and loose in the scheduling process, when you finally sit down, you can end up feeling tremendous pressure to “get something done.” That’s in part because you don’t know when the next writing session will be. But if you know you have an hour today and another hour tomorrow and another the day after that, you can begin to relax enough to enjoy the process of meeting chaos on the page rather than in your daily life. Order serves and contains chaos for the creative person.

Order is also required to finish projects, revise them, and send them out into the world. We stumble terribly when we let chaos into these processes. That’s when the river sweeps us up again. So let’s take Thoreau’s advice here: “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.”

Putting foundations under creativity can be challenging for writers. So when the New Year comes around we, along with many others, seize the chance invite more order into our seemingly chaotic lives.

Of course, goal setting has always been easy; it’s the follow through that’s hard, because change is hard. Change requires that we first assess the chaos in our own lives (particularly the chaos that is masquerading as order—how many people say they write everyday but actually have multiple tabs open in their browser at the same time?).

When you’re ready to make a change by setting a goal, first try to assess the level of chaos underlying the areas that need attention. Ask yourself why that area of your life is chaotic, and then ask yourself to come up with one way you could bring some order to that area.

For example, if you overeat, make a schedule with set meals and snack times and don’t deviate from the schedule for one week. At the end of the week, ask yourself how you feel. If you want to write but never sit down to it with any regularity, decide on a time of day and a length of time and block it out in your calendar as you would a trip to the dentist or lunch with a friend, and then stick to your appointment for one week. Pay attention to how you feel after a week’s worth of this kind of productivity.

For most creative people, establishing order doesn’t feel good, but the results from living and creating within a structure (of time allotment or word count) end up feeling energizing. That kind of energy can inspire a creative person to value order in a new way, one which allows them to experience the real rewards of turning chaotic energy into creative work.

Chaos will always be whispering from the murky depths, and we want it to, since those whispers provide the good ideas, and we want to stay open to them. But if you want to experience the rewarding results of your creativity in 2018, then build yourself a raft of orderly routines so you can flow with the river without going under.

Invitation: Devote one week to meticulously recording the time you spend writing. Note down which locations you choose and how you feel before, during, and after writing. At the end of the week, assess your levels of chaos and order. Create a plan for the following week that includes a greater effort at order. Stick to the plan! Record how you feel after.