I’m one of those who have worked on one single story for more than thirty five years, making it more beautiful, and longer as well, but who could never decide to share it with others, as afraid they would laugh about it.
And when, in the end, I decided to complete it with the only thing it still needed (true descriptions from a true place, that remained to define), something else came out of it, which was worth being lived.
A kind of “inspiration spring” would open above my pen, and I just let it flow for eight years, studying a lot, reading much and commenting what I had learnt.
And now, after this fabulous experience, I’m one of those who have a thousand never ended things to terminate, to correct, to clip together, to move around, to sort out, and, maybe later on, to publish.
So, although I can understand what you mean, I cannot completely agree with it.
To me it seems that publication is the very last thing of all.
During the 35 years on that novel, I was convinced that I was not a writer, since I had not even completed nor published a single book.
Quality was important to me.
And I didn’t realise that I was still wondering if quantity would suffice.
Well, once I started wondering on this, I found out that I had only about 2000 A4 pages in small characters.
Laugh out loud. One can sometimes be stupid…