“Done” is a meaningless and rather ironic word, sometimes.
My mom called as I was reading my last rewritten scene and determining it was (for now, anyway) “done.”
Mom: You don’t sound good, what’s the matter?
She always thinks I don’t sound good when I’m happy. Conversely, I apparently sound peachy when I’m ready to jump in front of a bus.
Me: I’m fine. Just finished my rewrite.
Mom: I thought you finished that a month ago. Which one is this?
Me: Yeah, it’s the same one. I finished it, then I rewrote it.
(An interminably long beat as the generation gap expands with a jaw-cracking yawn.)
Mom (cont’d): I wish you’d do something with that children’s book. That was really great…
I’m sure things are different when you’re not writing on spec, ‘cause you get to go to that “it’s out of my hands” place. But at this juncture in my writing career, “done” is kinda anticlimactic.