The End – How to Make or Break Your Story

I’ve finished another essay in On Writing Horror, this time “Darkness Absolute: The Standards of Excellence in Horror Fiction” by Douglas E. Winter. Predominately I am studying how to write a good horror story but in truth the following principle applies to every story regardless of genre. How you end your story is what your readers will remember… and what they will tell their friends.

I recently started reading a book by a new-to-me author and as usual, left a note on Facebook reporting my interest. Almost immediately a good friend, fellow writer and bibliophile gave me her opinion of the novel. In her words, “the ending was a let down.”

As a reader, I may at this early stage quit the book as I hate a disappointing ending. However if I do continue and the author has done their job well, I will no doubt become smitten with the characters and intrigued by the plot. I will find myself caught in the wonderful world contained within its pages and hope that the ending is better than reported.

If the ending is disappointing, I will think twice about buying all future books by that author and when a friend reports their interest in the novel, I will express my thoughts. As a bibliophile I have many friends who are avid readers and much of what I read is based on their suggestions. Likewise, what I remember most about every novel is the ending. Those final words make or break a good story for me.

With this in mind as an author, I must pay close attention to how I end my own stories. I must remember that the ending will decide how my readers remember my work and ultimately me as a writer. In truth, the ending is the most important part of the book, everything else from the first page to the last leads up to that incredible climax. And it must be an incredible climax rather than a short piddle into obscurity.

A Poem – Forevermore

Forevermore

My world shattered when I was nine

You left me one last time

I stood on the sofa and watched the lights

Swirl bright and red and I knew you were gone

I cried and cried, I yelled and yelled,

You were my rock and then you were gone

We went to the viewing, my family and me

So many people all strangers

And then there it was, a large metal box.

Inside was a body, all pasty and pale

Dressed in your finest dress, a flowered blue

The eyes were closed with a look of peace

And I told everyone it was not you

If it had been you, you’d hold out your arms to me

Encircling me in your love’s security

When my parent’s fought, your bed was my haven

You were my shield, my advocate and then you were gone.

Days later as I wept, missing you, you came to me.

You held me once more in peace and serenity

You wiped my tears and gave me joy

Just like before and I knew you would be with me

Forevermore.

© 2010 I. L. Foster. All Rights Reserved.

A Poem: My Nirvana

Where is my Nirvana?

Where is my nirvana? A world where

People of opposing viewpoints are free

To share without discrimination or fear

Of angry mob-festered retribution.

Where is my nirvana? A place where

The innocent may walk the streets

Unencumbered by hostile, mean-spirited

Souls seeking vengeful expression.

Why must I, seeker of knowledge, defender

Of peaceful verbal discourse walk softly

My opinions kept to myself while my neighbors

On cardboard cutups broadcast their ignorance?

Why must we fear the masses with their racism and hatred?

Why can’t we all accept each other regardless of our differences?

You preach faith, peace and love

Yet your words spout of war, vengeance and retaliation.

Where is my Nirvana you ask,

With saddened heart I say, not here.

© 2010 I. L. Foster. All Rights Reserved.

A Good Read

I love a good read, we all do. As readers we love to watch the words dance across the page as the gifted author strokes our imaginations, temporarily erasing the world around us. Before our eyes our mind is filled with a tapestry of new sights and sounds, what was our present reality becomes background. What was unreal becomes real. It is the joy of getting lost in a good book.

My favorite genre is horror. Not because I am a fear-craving adrenaline junkie who only enjoys the dramatic twists and turns that lead to a satisfying climax. Rather I fall in-love with the characters for their realism, their humanity. They are not perfect but in their heightened emotional state I feel them. I relate to their vulnerability, their panic as they realize things aren’t always as they seem and I admire their bravery as they fight against their deepest, darkest fears.

I recently finished a romantic dark fantasy by an author I had not read before. I was deeply impressed by her portrayal of her main character. It was a great read and I was driven to consume every word until the novel was complete. That is until I was 80% into the story; then things started to unravel.

Rather than allow the story to continue to unfold naturally, the main character began to explain parts of the story that were not present. It was as if the author had gotten lost in her own story and bored, decided to rush things along. Until that point I was able to follow each nuance, each developing step. The more the main character explained, the more confused I became. I kept reading because from the beginning she (main character) captivated me and by that time I was committed to finishing her tale. The ending though satisfying was not all it could have been if the author had not rushed.

Today I was continuing my study of On Writing Horror by reading an essay on literary fiction by Nick Mamatas. What occurred to me as I studied the difference between literary fiction and most mass-market genre fiction is the author’s love of words. In literary fiction the author takes their time to choose her words carefully, enjoying the rhythm of her prose. In mass-market horror the emphasis is in getting the story told with as much pounding roller-coaster fear and gore thrown in as possible. It’s interesting that Mr. Mamatas points out that some of the most fearful stories he has ever read were literary. They are also the ones, according to him, that get the mainstream attention.

This I can believe as they are also my preference. Give me a beautiful read that still keeps my blood flowing over a slash-and-scare novel that leaves me bored as I tread through body parts any day. Or in the case above, a novel that was rushed when it could have been so much more.