Discipline Without Cruelty

Clara Wren

Alright, friends, gather round. Today, we're pulling the curtain back on why finishing a story is so—ugh—painful. Vincent, I know for me, it’s like suddenly realizing everyone can actually see what you've made, flaws and all. There’s this fear of being, you know, really seen? But that’s just the first hurdle.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Yeah, absolutely. There’s that vulnerability. And add to it, you lose that spark of newness. Drafting is exciting, right? It’s the wild bit. Then you get to the end and suddenly it’s not about making fireworks, it’s about holding the line. Decision fatigue just piles on. You’re making so many little choices—dozens in a single sitting—until you start questioning each one.

Clara Wren

Exactly! And you’ve said before, Vincent, finishing a novel demands a sort of—what do you call it—stewardship? Like, instead of conjuring up more spectacle, you’re kind of holding the story steady so it doesn’t wobble at the finish.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

That’s it, yes. I mean, in Ashes in the Rain that shift hit in the last third. Suddenly courage wasn’t about invention or surprise, but about restraint. If I’m honest, I struggled not to just throw in one more dramatic twist. But the real discipline, for me, was trusting the story’s quieter beats—going for something true but less, uh, showy.

Clara Wren

Oh, that’s so interesting—reminds me of our last episodes too. We talked about how those silences can say more than big noisy endings. Listeners, if you skipped Episode One about holding space in fiction... now’s your sign to backtrack.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Right, the idea that courage changes shape near the end. Also, you’re tired by then. But the important bits, they need gentleness, not more energy, you know? That’s where most writers want to bail. Or, honestly, overwork it—because it’s actually easier to do more than to decide you’ve done enough.

Clara Wren

So how do we get ourselves through that finish line without turning into creative martyrs? I mean—what’s the recipe for discipline that’s actually kind?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Four things, Clara. First, tempo over time. I always say, short, repeatable sessions beat those binge-writing marathons that end in burnout and guilt. Two, threshold rituals. The same small actions at the start of every session—little signals to your brain that, hey, we're safe, nothing dangerous about writing today. Three, specific outcomes. Not this vague “work on novel,” but something like, “polish the last paragraph of scene twelve.” And four, protect your first decision of the day. You prep the next step at night, so when you wake up, the path’s already lit.

Clara Wren

I’m hopeless without rituals. And I’ve got to ask—you've got that actual lantern, don’t you? The one you switch on before writing Ashes in the Rain? Walk us through your exact routine there.

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Lantern on, every time. Then, one paragraph copied from yesterday’s work, just to get my fingers moving. After that, five minutes reading some lines aloud—even if it’s terrible and I cringe a little. The sequence is always the same, and it helps quiet down the noise in my head. Makes those first steps automatic instead of anxious.

Clara Wren

I love how practical that is. So, in the actual writer’s toolkit, what’s going in besides your lantern?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

You want a focus timer—somewhere between 25 and 35 minutes. A scene card that lists one to three tiny, measurable things you’ll move. A clear finish line for your work—like, “replace two adverbs with images.” And, maybe most important, a witness. That could be a friend or just a log where you jot down, “sat for 30, moved the block one inch.” It makes it real.

Clara Wren

Okay, it’s time for folks to actually try this out with us. We want to offer a low-stress, seven-day finishing plan for anyone who’s stuck in the final stretch. So, how do we start?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Day one: make a scene inventory. Just list out the five scenes that still need to stabilize, even if they’re rough. Day two, you pick one scene and figure out, “what’s the tiniest version of done?”—maybe tightening just 150 words. For days three to five, you hold three focused sessions—just jot down action words like “cut,” or “read aloud.”

Clara Wren

And then, day six is all about seeing the draft fresh. Could be a printout or reading on your phone—just mark things with checkmarks or hearts, but no rewriting yet!

D. Vincent Delorenzo

Exactly, Clara. Then on day seven, you go back in, make those quick marks, and finish with the Next Obvious Step. If anyone misses a day—look, guilt is pointless. You just reset the ritual and step back in. Shame isn’t helpful—discipline resumes; shame does not.

Clara Wren

And we get so many listener questions on this part! One I really love: What if you keep over-editing the first chapter and never reach the end?

D. Vincent Delorenzo

I’ve done that. My fix: lock your first chapter in a file called “Do-Not-Open” and don’t look at it. Work on chapters two through ten, gain distance. You have to trust that the early mess is allowed to be messy, so the end can come into view.

Clara Wren

What about knowing when a scene’s actually finished? Because I agonise over that sometimes...