What’s your puzzling behavior? Mine is much like my writing behavior. Once I begin a jigsaw puzzle or writing project, I am compelled to finish it – no matter how difficult, no matter how long it takes. Recently, I worked on a puzzle that taught me an important lesson about letting go. Letting go is not the same as giving up.

We often have a puzzle in progress on our dining room table. We work on it as a family. A few pieces now and then in passing. Several pieces during a longer sitting. Our individual obsession with the puzzles often depends upon the images. My son enjoys our Nintendo- and sports-themed ones. I like the nature- and book-themed ones. My husband enjoys pretty much all of them. As a result, we always complete the puzzles.

Until last month.

Last month, I brought home a new puzzle featuring a book stack illustration that included several of my favorite novels and authors (Amor Towles, M.L. Stedman, Toni Morrison, Tayari Jones, to name a few).

The bright colored, unique spines and title fonts tricked us into thinking it would be easy. (I should have known, when it comes to completing a book, it’s never easy.)

As a rule, we assemble the puzzle’s edge first, then complete the inner portions until the whole picture is complete. My novel-writing process is similar. I create an outline, then fill in the big picture scene by scene, piece by piece.

This tried-and-true process didn’t work for our book puzzle. The outer portion was solid white, and so many of the white pieces were nearly identical. So. Many. Pieces.

We adjusted our approach and completed the puzzle book by book. It was fun. The puzzle was lovely. But, once we were left with only white pieces, we were stuck. The pieces were so similar, they often landed in the wrong spot – until we completed a small section and realized that one piece in the middle was incorrect, and thus all the surrounding pieces were incorrect, and we had to deconstruct an entire section and try again. And again. And again.

My son was the first to recognize the insanity of it. My husband was the second. After a couple of weeks of this maddening process, the futility of it finally hit us all. Finally, I let go. I packed up the puzzle and put the box in the cupboard.

I’ve often heard writers talk about “the manuscript in their drawer,” the incomplete or unpublished book. I never understood how someone could spend so much time on a project, only to quit so near the finish line.

Now I understand. It’s OK to tuck a project away, if completing it proves maddening. It may sit in that drawer indefinitely. Or maybe, if the time is right, you can pull it out again and see it through to completion. Either way, sometimes it’s OK to let go.