Why Artificial Deadlines Work

I just sent the 215 page manuscript of my new novel to Bridget, my college roommate, who lives on the other side of the country. She has read all of my rough drafts for more than 20 years, now, and she is the one who tells me the worst news, in the best possible way. She will say, "You are so good at writing X, so what are you doing writing Y?" or "I kept wishing for more scenes where your character does Z." Bridget is, in my humble opinion, brilliant, and I can't imagine publishing anything she hasn't critiqued. When I teach, or coach, other writers, I try to model myself after her enormously supportive yet super critical tone.

A few months ago, I picked a day when I would complete the manuscript and put it in the mail to Bridget. I wrote it on my calendar in red pen -- and I considered the date immoveable. No matter what, the manuscript would go in the mail that day. It's an artificial deadline, but it works, and here's why: I get one chance for Bridget to read my work, and I want the work to be as perfect as it can be on that day. I know that she has set aside time to read, and what good would it do for her to read something half-baked? That would waste her time, and mine. So I strive to get as good as I can be. I stay up late for weeks before the deadline, trying to get things right. I say no to all social engagements because I have to write. This morning, I woke up with a swirl of revision ideas in my head, and I spent two hours inserting them before I hit the "print" button. I think some of what I just wrote is some of the best stuff in all 215 pages.

The day I send my manuscript to Bridget could, in theory, be any day. But by choosing one, and making a commitment to it, I get good work done. I love what I sent off. I can't wait to see which parts she loves, too.