Writing Magazine April 2020

BEGINNERS

32 APRIL 2020 http://www.writers-online.co.uk

T

here’s some truth in the saying

that goes, ‘If you finish what

you started, only then can you

look back and see how well

you did.’

I don’t claim the credit for this. Maybe it

was Confucius or one of those other Clever

Dicks... or maybe it was a variation of a

saying my father drilled into me, which

usually went along the lines of, ‘Finish that

and you can start something else.’ It made a

kind of sense back when I was young enough

to heed his advice, and because I couldn’t see

the hitch coming, which was often another

job he needed doing around the house or

garden. But since the next job usually led to

some kind of reward – he was a fair-minded

employer – I couldn’t complain too much.

It was a habit that followed me into

my writing, because without finishing a

piece, there was nothing I could do with

it. I couldn’t tell whether the story worked;

didn’t want to show it to anyone to see what

they thought; certainly couldn’t submit it

to a magazine editor (which it usually was

when I started out in this strange business).

I couldn’t even begin to derive any great

personal satisfaction from it. Like a half-built

wall, it stood but not all the way up.

I come across people quite often who

say they once started to write something

but had never finished it. Sometimes the

words come with a shrug and not a hint of

regret, as if it was an effort of its time that

carried no real chance of success anyway,

so no great loss. Others carry an echo of

something else; wistfulness, perhaps. I rarely

know why they didn’t finish what they’d

started, and it’s usually not my place to ask.

It could have been a lack of conviction, or

ideas or even the desire – that inner drive

most writers have which draws them back to

the keyboard or paper even when the world

is in turmoil and there are countless other

demands on their time.

Starting out writing short fiction, the end

was always somewhere in sight, or at least

not so far off that it seemed an impossible

task. Whether 1,000 words or 5,000 or

more, it was achievable, even if only to be

able to look back at the completed work

and think about what to do with it next,

whether it involved a stamped, addressed

envelope (remember those?) or a quick flick

of the lighter and watching the words go up

in smoke. (Actually, I rarely did that – the

fire bit, I mean – because I’ve never believed

in throwing away any of my writing. To

do so is to invalidate all the hours spent

composing the words, and because I quickly

learned that recycling them represented a lot

of saved effort and time. Whether an idea,

a paragraph, a character or a simple piece

of dialogue, if I could use an unused piece

elsewhere, I would try.)

Writing books is a little harder to see the

end, but it’s merely a question of scale. Each

chapter has its own beginning and end,

which can be judged as you go, and each

chapter adds to the collective. Write enough

chapters and you soon have a book. Then

you can look back and judge whether what

you have is a pile of manure or something

worth submitting. And, yes, I’ve had plenty

of manure along the way, usually consigned

to a bottom drawer and later dissected for the

odd nugget... which is probably a picture you

don’t want in your head.

Unlike some, and perhaps because of the

‘finish what you started’ credo, I’ve never

been able to show my writing to anyone until

it’s a done deal. Doesn’t matter whether it’s

an article, a short story or a book, it has to

be finished before I can even think of letting

it out into the world without feeling my toes

curling up in anticipation of derision.

The only way I can do that is by finally

writing THE END at the end. Then I know

it’s done. Yes, there will be some re-reading

and re-editing (I tend to edit a lot as I go, so

it’s a rolling function), but the biggest part of

the job is completed.

Whether you edit as you go as I do, or

at the end (as I also do because I’m never

fully satisfied), you eventually have to say to

yourself, ‘That’s it. Stop bloody fiddling and

get it out there.’

By the same token, an agent or publisher,

while prepared to look at a synopsis or the first

few chapters, will really only be able to make

a final judgement when they can read the

finished work. They can get excited by a first

sighting of a submission or even a synopsis,

but they won’t give it a definitive ‘yes’ until

they know what they’re dealing with.

Even at this stage you might have to accept

that it isn’t going to fly without some extra

work. But that’s part of accepting someone’s

judgement, of being a determined – and

professional – writer; you pick yourself up and

start again because that’s what we all do.

And the bitter pill of junking something

you aren’t happy with is more easily justified if

you start writing something else instead.

Finish what you started, says Adrian Magson. It’s the only way to find out if it’s got legs.

• Finish the job. You can’t judge a wall
  half-built.


• Getting a complete view of a project is
  the only way to gauge its worth.


• If a project stalls or fails, don’t dwell.
  Start something else.

The finishing line

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