Sometimes my writing students ask how to end their stories.
I give them my best piece of writing advice: start with an explosion and end
with a bigger explosion.
I know it sounds a bit facetious, especially because the
“explosion” part only works with certain genres (although, in my humble
opinion, many romance novels could only be improved by the addition of a
fireball or two). Even so, there’s a kernel of truth in the “explosion
sandwich” writing model, because it shows that the ending (whether it contains
an actual “kablooey” or not) should be connected to the beginning.
The key is to set up some kind of question in the beginning
so that you can resolve it at the end. For example: how will we stop the mad
bomber? Does anyone know where he’ll strike next? And why is this unmarked
package ticking?
If (for some strange reason) you prefer literature with less
collateral damage, you could do the same thing without explosions. Will your
main character ever learn to love? How much will the mother sacrifice for her
family? Where will this average Joe draw the line? Once you have the question,
you know the answer is the end, and the end is the answer.
Nobody knows this better than Disney. Watch any of their
classic animated movies and within the first five minutes or so you’ll see the
princess singing about her heart’s true desire. To find love. To explore an
unknown land. To use home-made robots to save the world from an evil
scientist’s doomsday machine. Okay, maybe that last one is less Disney and more
Mad Science Institute,
but the basic pattern is the same, and the audience is always left asking
whether— and how— the princess will ever achieve her dream.
If you know how you want your story to end, set it up that
way from the beginning. If you know how you want your story to begin, think
about what question you’re asking and what difficult decisions it will force
your characters to make. The key is not just to ask a question, but to ask a question with no clear answer. That’s
a Kobayshi Maru, to you Trekkers. Whatever you call it, your readers will keep
turning those pages as long as they can’t see how things can possibly be
resolved.
Of course, you shouldn’t give your characters an easy path
from the beginning of the story to the end. If it’s the story about falling
into a hole, don’t throw a ladder in there with them. Make them claw their way
out, inch by inch. Make them fall back in, break an ankle, and end up worse off
than when they started. In order to get out, they’re going to have to sacrifice
something important to them, or grow in some way, or learn to live in the hole.
Their choice shows character, and character is what drives the story.
If it were one of my characters in that hole, they would
most likely concoct some kind of improvised explosive and launch themselves,
rocket like, into the sky… before landing in an even deeper hole. Hey, look at
that—another story that starts and ends with an explosion. Maybe I need a
psychiatrist.
Be good, and dream crazy dreams.
Sechin Tower
is a teacher, a table-top game designer, and the author of Mad Science Institute. You can read more about him and his books on
SechinTower.com, Facebook, or Twitter.