Writing is an incremental process. At least for novels; you can, theoretically, knock out a short story in a single session, though in practice that is rare. Creating a novel is a process. It is bricklaying, spreading the mortar and applying a layer of bricks every day.
When you read a book you don’t see that process. You see only the finished product, an intact whole. But during the creation all the writer has at any given moment is what bricks are currently in place and a conception of what the completed structure should — eventually — look like.
It’s a slog. One brick at a time. There a two points of greatest enjoyment in the drafting process: the initial day and the typing of ‘The End.’ In between is the slog. Doesn’t sound particularly glamorous, does it?
At the moment I am cognizant that the end of the slog nears for the current Work in Progress. Three weeks, maybe. Perhaps four. But I don’t feel it, I don’t sense the end of the journey. I’m still slogging along.
Once I do see the finish line I’ll have to restrain myself from shifting into a sprint. The slog will have gotten me so far, a sprint risks making mistakes. Mistakes I’d just have to clear up during the second draft.
So, head down, keep on slogging. The end will come when it comes.