By that, I mean when you’re writing them.

I am almost done with my revision. Right on time—I’m sending the revised manuscript to my editor Monday morning before I go to day job. What I’m doing now is reading over everything I’ve done, adding in an edit here an edit there, changing a word here, a word there. Polishing. Looking for stray typos—yes, there are always typos. But mostly just reading.

Only thing is, I can see how this process could be endless. I can totally see how‚ if I didn’t have someone waiting for it, I could keep on revising for years. I could write new scenes. I could change things said, things that happened. It could be a never-ending series of variations on a single story, all the many countless ways this could have played out had I taken a different turn, made a different choice, revealed a new thing.

Wow. When does a book feel finished?

Ever?

This is why I will have to invent a deadline when I start writing my next novel—which, so you know, I will be focusing on wholeheartedly at the very start of 2009. I need to be sure I stop. Or else that book will never get written.