How to Know When a Piece Is Done (Or Just Done Enough)

Finishing a piece of writing is not a single moment—it’s a slow, sideways feeling. A pause. A blink. Something like silence.

It’s not always obvious. Sometimes it arrives like a click. Other times, it’s a quiet giving-up. A decision to stop fiddling, even if part of you wants to keep reaching back in.

But how do you actually know when something is done?

Let’s be honest: most of the time, you don’t. You decide it is. And you decide again, tomorrow. And the day after that.

But here are a few things that help me get close.

1. You’ve Read It Without Changing Anything (More Than Once)

This sounds obvious, but it’s a concrete benchmark. If you can read through your draft without reaching for a pen—or at least without making any major structural changes—that’s a sign you’ve moved from revision into tinkering. And tinkering can be endless.

If you’re only swapping adjectives or rearranging a line out of boredom, it might be time to step away.

2. You Know What It’s About

Not just the topic. The emotional core.

What is this piece really trying to say? What question does it ask? What feeling does it leave behind?

Sometimes a piece stays “unfinished” not because the language is wrong, but because you haven’t yet gotten honest about what you’re trying to reveal.

Once you name that—and make sure the piece is serving it—you’re probably closer to the end than you think.

3. It No Longer Feels Embarrassing (In a Good Way)

Most good writing makes you feel a little exposed. There’s a moment where you ask, Can I actually say this?

If you’ve gotten there—and moved through it—and the piece still holds up when you reread it, chances are it’s done. Or at least, done enough to be shared.

4. You’ve Let It Rest, and It Still Speaks to You

A finished piece holds its shape even after distance. If you can walk away for a few days (or weeks) and return to it without cringing—or without the urge to tear it apart—you’re probably close to done. The piece doesn’t need to feel “perfect” on reread. It just needs to feel true.

Time is a better editor than mood.

5. The Urge to Keep Editing Feels More Like Avoidance

This one’s sneaky. Sometimes we keep revising not because the work needs it, but because we’re afraid to move on. Afraid to send it out. Afraid of what it says about us.

Ask yourself: am I still improving this—or just protecting myself?

It’s okay to be scared. But don’t confuse fear with unreadiness.

6. It’s Not Whispering at You Anymore

I once heard someone say that a piece is done when it stops talking back. It doesn’t haunt you. It doesn’t nudge your elbow at 2 a.m. It’s not asking for more. It’s just… there.

Solid. Quiet. Whole enough to stand.

Let It Go, Even If You’re Not Sure

Most writers don’t feel a sense of closure when a piece is done. They feel doubt. Relief. Mild nausea.

But finishing doesn’t mean perfect. It means enough. Enough that it can leave your laptop. Enough that it can become something in the world, not just in you.

And you can always return. But maybe—just maybe—you won’t need to.

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Book of the Week

Explore the high-pressure world of sales with The Closer. Larry Morgan's engaging narrative blends humor and real-world insights, making it a must-read for anyone interested in the dynamics of salesmanship and career evolution.

Larry Morgan, The Closer: An Inside Look at the World of High-Powered Sales, Big Money, and Big Egos, is a bestseller on Amazon.

The Closer

by Larry Morgan

When I first embarked on my professional journey, I never imagined the winding road that would eventually lead me from the dusty lanes of rural Iowa to the electric atmosphere of high-stakes corporate boardrooms. Looking back, every knock on a door, every conversation filled with hesitant curiosity and outright rejection, contributed to a tapestry of experiences that rooted my understanding of the art of persuasion.

Humble Beginnings: The Raw World of Door-to-Door Sales

I still remember my first days traveling through small towns in Iowa, armed with nothing more than a briefcase full of encyclopedias and a determination to make a mark. The early mornings were as unforgiving as the roads themselves—long, dusty stretches where the modern world felt months away. In those moments, each knock on a door was an act of courage. It wasn’t merely about selling books; it was about initiating a conversation with strangers, about reading subtle body language, and about slowly, imperceptibly building trust. I was young, inexperienced, and faced with a torrent of rejection that at times threatened to break my spirit. But those rejections also became my most profound teachers, showing me the delicate balance between persistence and respect, enthusiasm and empathy. Every encounter was like a microcosm of a high-pressure negotiation, a stage on which I learned to adjust my approach based on the little cues I gleaned from the person behind the door. It was in this environment that I started to understand that sales is not just a transaction—it’s an art of conversation, of engagement, and of finding common ground even in the most unlikely of circumstances. I recall evenings spent reflecting on what went wrong or right, scribbling down notes on how to handle the next interaction better. These reflections were crucial in forging the mindset I would carry into more challenging sales arenas later on. The simplicity of the rural setting, coupled with the complexity of human responses, laid a foundation that has withstood the test of time.

Learning Through Rejection: The Art of Persuasion and Resilience

The cold sting of rejection is something no one prepares you for, yet it’s a rite of passage in the world of sales. In my early days, each 'no' was not just a door closed, but also a silent lesson in resilience and strategy. My journey was punctuated by countless instances where confidence met indifference, and it was within these moments that I discovered the subtle yet powerful dynamics of persuasion. I learned that effective persuasion wasn’t about hard selling or manipulating words—it was about truly understanding the human psyche, reading the hesitations and curiosities etched on each face, and adjusting my tone to reflect genuine interest in the person’s needs.

One memorable day, I encountered a seasoned salesman named Hal. His approach was different from anything I had seen before. Hal possessed an almost intuitive ability to sense the right moment to shift gears. During one particular interaction, what started as an invitation to enjoy a complimentary trip quickly evolved into a seamless transition where Hal converted enthusiasm into commitment.

The transition was so natural and forceful that it left me with an indelible lesson: every interaction, no matter how trivial it might seem, contains within it the potential for transformation. I vividly recall analyzing every piece of that encounter. Here was a man who turned a harmless gesture—a free trip—into a strategic setup for closing a deal on luxury and at Tahoe Donner. His tactics were not about pressure in the conventional sense but were rooted in an authentic demonstration of confidence and reliability. It was about contacting that intrinsic part of a person’s decision-making process.

I watched, learned, and implemented these lessons, gradually developing my own methodology that married empathy with assertiveness. This period in my life was, without doubt, one of the most challenging yet rewarding. It was the era when every rejection was a clarion call to refine my pitch, to dig deeper into the art of persuasion. I began to see that the power of sales lies not in convincing people to change their minds through forceful arguments, but rather in guiding them to see opportunities they hadn’t considered—a gentle nudge against the inertia of everyday habits.

Criminally underestimating the importance of these formative experiences would have been—and still is—a mistake made by many. Today, I attribute much of my success to those early days and the lessons embedded in every single 'no' I encountered.