One thing I like about writing blog pieces and critical pieces and short stories is the feeling of completing something. It may be short, but it's done. It's easy to let go and pretty much forget all about what you just wrote. On to the next written thing, you can say, and in the meantime, I'll keep working on the longer thing. Except that with the longer things, I have real difficulty finishing. I guess the crux of the problem there is just letting go. I almost never once feel "proud" when I've completed something long. It's not that I think what I wrote may not be pretty good, or at least the best I could make it, and that I didn't put my all into trying to make it as good as I could make it. More, it's the nagging feeling that "The book is not finished. There's something that can be improved. What didn't I do that could make this a bit tighter, sharper, better written?" As Martin Scorsese says in his Master Class talks, about how he views a film he has shot and now is editing, "The truth is. It's never finished. It's never finished."
What I'm talking about here is not fear of criticism or tough responses. That's something else entirely, a natural part of the territory for anyone engaging in creative activity. I can't say that part of the process has ever weighed on my mind much. Some people like what you've done, some don't. So be it. You did the best you could, and that's it. After that, regarding reactions, all bets are off, as they should be.
But letting go, looking at a longer work I've done and saying "It's finished" or saying, "It's as good as I can possibly make it" or saying, "From here on in, the time put in is not worth the tiny tweaks I might make when I could start something new" is something I need to work on. I wouldn't say I need to seek out therapy about this, but then again, in this day and age, what's more natural than seeking out therapy for a psychological sticking point? The therapist's office, the soft couch or cushioned chair, the lulling quality of the white noise machine, the cocoon of the place as one talks about oneself with utter self-indulgence...
It's tempting, but no. I can see myself talking about the issue for months without making much headway on it. I just need, by myself, with novellas and novels, to learn one simple thing.
How to let the fucking book go.