How do you know when your book is finished? I asked this question last month at the wonderful Highlights Foundation Whole Novel Workshop, and answers ranged from the practical, such as a deadline imposed by a publisher, to the abstract–an inarticulate shrug that confirmed my suspicion that this is a question faced by all writers, a question with no certain answer.
Of course, a writer knows how her story ends, and once she writes that end, she’s achieved a first level of finished, but there are so many more levels. Are the characters rich and quirky? Are there any holes in the plot? Are there continuity problems? Is the action paced appropriately? Does the writer lean in when she should and race along when she should and shift from leaning to racing in ways that satisfy the reader? Are all the sentences lovely? Is the voice true? Each of these questions can lead to a full round of revision.
Revision means to see again, or to see anew. Every time a writer sees her book again, she discovers ways to make it better. Walt Whitman revised his masterpiece Leaves of Grass again and again over four decades. In his opinion, the book was never finished. But most authors publish and move on to the next book. Somehow, they come to the end and don’t go back again to the beginning. So, how do they know when it is finally time to type “The End” on the final page?
I think every writer will have a different answer, I suspect writers discover the answer is different for each book. For me, for now, I know I’m at the end because I’ve gotten to a point with my manuscript where all I’m doing is moving furniture around. I’m not crafting anything new. I’m shifting phrases from here to there, reorganizing bits of dialogue, and tinkering with diction. Metaphorically speaking, I’m trying the chair out in a different corner, deciding it looked better in its original spot, and carrying it back, adjusting the angle, wiping away a crumb. Stepping back to study the effect and agreeing with myself that it was worthwhile seeing the chair in a different spot, but it belongs back where it was.
I am not saying that a wise reader couldn’t bustle in and redecorate to great effect, but my ability to see my own work has reached its limit. I am ready to collapse into the chair, right where it is, and settle down, at least for now, with the knowledge that I’ve written a pretty good book.