Between the hack writer’s flood of popcorn novels, and the novels that spend two, three, or more years being vetted to within an inch of their lives, there is a happy medium.
It doesn’t matter how long it takes you to write your novel and polish it until it gleams like a precious jewel. When it’s finally published, the world is going to treat it just like any other book. It’s going to be judged by standards that have nothing to do with your dreams for your it, and the chances are (I’d say about 98%) that it isn’t going to astound the world. You’re going to have to work for readers, just like every other author, and nobody’s going to be beating down your door, offering you contracts for film rights.
The truth is that your book just isn’t that different from thousands of others, that your belief in its amazing genius is delusional, and the time you put into it could have been better spent learning the craft of writing — by reading good literature, studying writing, whether by taking courses or studying books on writing, or — and here’s the big one — writing several more books.
That applies to my books also. On days when there’s nary a sale in sight, and the world seems to have forgotten all about me, it helps to keep all that in mind — and just keep plugging away at the next book.