On Final(ish) Drafts
I finally figured out the key ingredient to finishing a story. Hint: you're involved.
My self-imposed deadline is looming ever closer, and I've been reading through the current draft of Unquickened to make sure everything makes sense, I haven't left any massive gaps or accidentally retconned my own work, and I didn't leave any characters stranded without explanation.
I want this draft to be the final one, but it won't be. After I finish this read-through, it's off to the editor and beta readers, and then I'll need some time to read comments and suggestions and integrate the ones that need to be integrated. I will probably also need some time to wallow in self-recrimination and maybe drink a few bottles of wine (not all in one sitting, but you know, not slowly).
And then, maybe the draft will be final? Or final-ish?
The Difference Between Done and Final
I've been thinking about the concept of "final" in art. Let's be honest--nothing is ever really FINAL in my head. Even when I was re-reading Ravenmarked and Bloodbonded a few months ago, I kept finding things I wished I'd written differently. This doesn't necessarily mean that what ended up in the published version is bad--it just means that time and retrospect can alter the work in my head in such a way that I wish I'd published something different.
But even if it's never really final, it is, at some point, done.
This is a concept I've thought about in relation to my commercial work. For as long as I've been writing and editing for other people, I have put a limit on the number of revisions I will do. I'm not rigid about it, and I'm fairly lax in what I consider a "revision" (i.e., fixing a grammatical error or a typo or clarifying one sentence isn't a "revision"), but the limit is there to prevent a client from coming back to me an infinite amount of times for "just one more change." If I rewrote or reworked projects over and over, my profit margins on projects would be vanishingly small. That's no way to run a business. (Besides, if I'm doing my job right, I should get pretty close to a working draft on the first round.)
The concept of "done" also comes into play when clients have a cumbersome approval process. I get needing approval from various higher-ups or people in charge of products, but the problems arise when we're either writing by committee (everyone gets a say!) or when we're waiting for people to review and comment. Deadlines slide, projects get buried under more urgent things, and everyone ends up frustrated.
At some point, things have to be done.
What is Done?
This is where I find myself--trying to figure out what constitutes "done."
For me, "done" means:
Tolerable enough to my eyes that I can release it to the world's judgment.
Broadly consistent with the character, setting, timeline, and structure of other books/stories in the same world.
Basically free of typos and major grammatical errors that aren't intentionally there for style.
Contains all the relevant front and back matter.
Formatted for the best possible reading experience.
In short, "done" is basically synonymous with "publishable."
"Final," On the Other Hand...
"Final" is something entirely different.
Final doesn't even mean "I'm happy with this story, and I can now move on to something else." Because honestly, I don't know if I'm ever "happy" with my stories or that I ever move on to something else. The stories linger in my head forever. Even when I'm not thinking about them directly, the experiences I had writing them linger as I write future stories.
And even if I were "happy" with them when I wrote "the end" and sent them into the wider world, that doesn't mean that I can go back to the stories and still believe them "final" when I re-read them.
Here's the thing about Ravenmarked: I wrote that first draft in 2009 when my kids were ten, eight, six, and four. I published the version that's out there now in 2011. That was eleven years ago.
My kids are now (almost) 23, 21, (almost) 19, and 17. There have been some significant long, dark nights of the soul in the years since I wrote that first draft. I've gone through a lot of painful experiences and soul-searching times and crises of faith, and even now, I haven't entirely resolved all of those things.
And I've gone through some good things, too. And in eleven years, I've written a lot more--a LOT more, both for clients and for myself. I've edited other stories for other people and learned from those projects. I think I'm a better writer now than I was in 2009 (at least, I hope I am).
The world itself has changed dramatically since 2009. I've made and lost friendships because of my worldview and opinions. I've listened and watched the geopolitical shifts, the rise and fall of institutions, the illiberal dynamic sweeping across people of varying political persuasions, and it's influenced my thinking deeply.
When you put all of those things into the writer crockpot, you can't help but look back at your previous work and think, "maybe I should've written some of that differently."
The Final "Final" Ingredient
But here's what I'm realizing most about why art can be done, but never final:
The final ingredient is the consumer--you, my threes of fans.
I have come to believe that it's the reader who "finishes" the draft--the reader who makes a story "final."
I've always known that people interpret certain things in my work in a different way than I intended, or that people pick up symbolism or messages that I did not intentionally include.
But I never really connected all of that with the reader finishing the story until just recently.
I think this is where writing (or creating art in general) intersects with responsibility. It's my job to make something publishable--to write a high-quality story that's both internally and externally consistent, easy to read, and affordable. I can strive to make it worth the time and money, and I do strive for that, because I believe in putting out good products.
Not that I'm aiming for mediocrity, but eventually, stuff has to be "done."
But then? Then it comes down to the reader's responsibility. And to me, the reader is responsible for finishing the story.
That doesn't mean readers have to universally love the story and give it five stars and recommend it to all their friends, though that would be awesome if that happened.
It means that the reader has to bring an individual lens to the consumption of the art and process it through personal experiences, tastes, and worldview.
That's the part I can't control, but that's what makes a story "final."
That's what closes the loop.
So understand, dear friends and fans and readers, that when you open Unquickened this fall, you become part of the loop--part of the process, and perhaps the most important part. You finish the story--you make it final.
Welcome to the team.