Yeah, I’ll admit the title is misleading. No, I’m not done with writing in it’s entirety, but I am done with this book. After thirteen drafts, its about as polished as I can make it. And I’ve got other half-completed manuscripts that need my attention. It feels weird, after having spent so long with something to put it aside. I’ve heard that art is never really finished, just abandoned, and the older I’ve gotten, the more true that seems to be. Can my manuscript be better?
Probably. But in its current state its as good as I can make it, as the writer I am today. I’ve very proud of it, and I’m querying it around. But the revision period is over. Perhaps if I get an agent, I’ll return to it again.
On another note, while I had previously spoke of the virtues of self-publishing, I now find myself perusing the traditional route. What changed, you may ask? I find myself with more patience ever since I became a father. I have time to query, to wait. This isn’t a race. And if in a few years I find myself still without an agent and a virtual stack of completed manuscripts on my hard drive, then I’ll probably dive into the self-publishing pool. But for now, I have time. For now, I wait.