The Last Fifty Pages

by James Scott Bell

  This is certainly the case with a novel like J. D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield, the adolescent in search of a reason to live, is in a sanitarium being treated for depression. At the end of the book he has no idea what life is going to be like when he gets out.

  A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keep asking me if I’m going to apply myself when I go back to school next September. It’s such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean how do you know what you’re going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don’t. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it’s a stupid question.

  And then we’re left with the haunting last lines.

  Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

  Will Holden make it on the outside? That’s left up to us. And in this case, I believe the ending works. The book is about experiencing a boy’s “real life” struggles. By the time it’s over, we’ll have our own view of his future. It also helps when you can write a last chapter like Salinger.

  But when a book has been plot-centric and does not resolve, the effect is not usually a good one. An example of this (in my opinion) is Elmore Leonard’s Western, Valdez is Coming.

  The plot is straight-forward and compelling. A small-town constable, Bob Valdez, is manipulated by a rancher named Tanner into shooting a black man thought to be a murderer and Army deserter. Only it turns out to be the wrong man. The dead man was married to an Apache woman, who is pregnant. Bob Valdez wants to take up a collection for her.

  But when Valdez rides out to Tanner’s place to seek a donation, Tanner has his men shame him and send him away. When Valdez tries once again, Tanner has him tortured.

  That turns the mild-mannered Valdez into an agent of retribution. He wounds one of Tanner’s men and sends the bleeding man back to Tanner with a simple message: Valdez is coming.

  The plot, then, is a revenge narrative. Tanner is a sadist throughout. He deserves Western justice.

  But the book ends without allowing us to see the justice demanded by the plot. (There is one particularly violent scene involving the terrorizing of a family—battery on a young boy, the threat of rape to a young girl, and the burning down of the family’s home. If anyone deserves the business end of a Colt .45, it’s this man Tanner.)

  So with all the emotion that’s been built up, we get to the end, with Tanner and Valdez facing each other and. . .the book just ends! It’s almost as if Leonard left the last page in his typewriter when he sent in the manuscript.

  This, by the way, Leonard himself copped to. In an interview he once quipped, “I have to be satisfied with the ending even though my editor might say, ‘This book ends awfully abruptly.’ And then I say, ‘But it’s over.’ ”

  With all due respect (and I mean that) for Leonard’s obvious strengths, I’m on that editor’s side regarding this ending. After enduring the evil of Tanner for the entire book, I needed to see what happens to him.

  Now, a critic may argue that Valdez is Coming is really an anti-Western, or a post-modern Western, or even a literary Western. Fine.

  I call it a Western that didn’t end well.

  Which is a risk you take with a reader when leaving an ending open like this.

  Yet there is a way for genre novel to exploit the literary feel of an open end. If done well, it can elevate—rather than detract from—the reading experience.

  The secret is having the openness relate not to the plot, but to the character.

  I first became aware of this years ago when I read Dean Koontz’s Midnight. The plot is a bio-medical horror story, a mix of The Island of Dr. Moreau and Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The main character is an FBI agent, Sam Booker, who goes to investigate the strange deaths happening in a quiet, seaside town. There’s an unforgettable villain and several other well-drawn characters.

  Koontz, at this time in his career, was purposely upping his game from straight-ahead genre fiction to more complex characterizations and themes. It worked, as Midnight became his first #1 New York Times hardcover bestseller.

  What Koontz did was create a backstory for Sam Booker involving his troubled teen-age son. Sam is not good at relating to people on a deep personal level. But after going through all the horrific events of the book, and bonding with other characters, he is a changed man. He has the courage now to be a real father.

  So after all the plot elements are resolved, Koontz gives us one final scene between father and son. The book ends like this:

  Sam was sure he had not really gotten through the boy’s rage. Hadn’t more than scratched the surface. Sam had let an evil into their lives, the evil of self-indulgent despair, which he transmitted to the boy, and now rooting it out would be a hard job. They had a long way to go, months of struggle, maybe even years, lots of hugging, lots of holding on tight and not letting go.

  Looking over Scott’s shoulder, he saw that Tessa and Chrissie had stepped into the room. They were crying too. In their eyes he saw an awareness that matched his, a recognition that the battle for Scot had only begun.

  But it had begun. That was the wonderful thing. It had begun.

  You will note that the language of the last line is hopeful. It gives an upward trajectory to the open end. If Koontz had left that last line out, the trajectory would have been neutral. Which means skilled writers can leave a story just where they want in order to achieve the effect they desire.

  One last example, perhaps the most famous. Remember this one? A stubborn Southern belle becomes the only one in her family able to save their home in the aftermath of the Civil War. She’ll do it, because she wants to live the old life with her great love, Ashley Wilkes, even though she has agreed to marry that rogue Rhett Butler. Then, at the end, she realizes it’s Rhett she really loves. But it’s too late. He’s had it with her, and the tragic loss of their daughter only makes things worse. He no longer gives a damn, and walks out on her. This Southern belle, however, determines she’ll find a way to get him back. But she’ll think about that tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.

  Will Scarlett get Rhett back?

  We don’t know the answer. It is left to us as an open-ended question to which we bring our own feelings and desires. (Please don’t mention the sequel that was approved of by the Margaret Mitchell estate. Two things you should never do: write a sequel to Gone With the Wind and re-make Casablanca.)

  The shape of the Open Ended Ending:

  Death—professional or psychological—on the line. Physical death is not, because that is a definite ending.

  There is a Final Battle, but the ultimate outcome is not provided.

  However, the author can provide a trajectory.

  A memorable last line is essential.

  Whether you outline or not, you ought to at least plan an ending shape. It's not hard to do. No matter how you work, you will have a sense of where you're going—or want to go—with your novel. Choosing a shape to head toward will give focus to your writing. Certainly you can change the shape when you get to the end. But more often than not you'll find your instinct was correct.

  Thriller writer John Gilstrap has a popular series featuring Jonathan Grave, a hostage rescue expert. I once asked John how he outlines his plots. He smiled and said, "Bad guys do something very bad. Jonathan is hired, has a personal stake in the outcome. There's lots of action. Jonathan wins."

  That’s called knowing the shape of your ending.

  6

  THE MEANING OF YOUR ENDING

  What does your novel ultimately mean? What message will readers take away from it?

  And by message I don’t mean there has to be some neon sign flashing that says something like WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW IS LOVE SWEET LOVE!

  That’s a nice message and all, and you can certainly hold that one out if you like. But you have to filter it through a real, three-dimensional character in a justified life-and-death struggle.

  Agent and writing instructor Donald Maass says: “A
breakout novelist believes that what she has to say is not just worth saying, but it is something that must be said. Strong novelists have strong opinions. More to the point, they are not at all afraid to express them.” (Writing the Breakout Novel.)

  However, that expression has to come through a real plot and real characters. You must, at all costs, resist the impulse to stack the deck in favor of your viewpoint. One of the easiest ways to kill a novel is to preach in it.

  In Writing for the Soul, novelist Jerry B. Jenkins says, “I see this problem in many manuscripts: all talk, straw men, plots contrived to prove a point, but little that grabs and subtly persuades the reader. If your theme is the danger of alcoholism, simply tell a story in which an alcoholic suffers because of his bad decisions, and give the reader credit. Trust me, he’ll get it. If your story is powerful enough, your theme will come through.”

  At some point—whether at the start or the finish or the revision of your novel—you should be able to state the meaning you want the reader to come away with. Even if you’re one of those writers who doesn’t like “theme” and just writes to entertain, understand that your ending will convey a meaning. It therefore helps if you dig it out at some point. Because then you can revise or polish with that meaning in mind.

  One helpful way to do that is to think of the concept of “Life Lesson Learned.” Try this exercise:

  Go twenty years into the future after your novel ends. Sit your Lead character down in a chair. If your Lead character happens to be dead, you get to perform a resurrection. Or you can talk to his ghost. Whatever, sit him down!

  Now ask, like a reporter, this question: Looking back at all that happened to you, why do you think you had to go through that? What did you learn that you need to tell the rest of us?

  Write down his answer.

  In mythic structure, this is called the Return With the Elixir. As Christopher Vogler, author of The Writer’s Journey, puts it:

  The Return with the Elixir is the final Reward earned on the Hero’s Journey. The Hero has been resurrected, purified and has earned the right to be accepted back into the Ordinary World and share the Elixir of the Journey. The true Hero returns with an Elixir to share with others or heal a wounded land. The Elixir can be a great treasure or magic potion. It could be love, wisdom, or simply the experience of surviving the Special World. Even the tragic end of a Hero’s Journey can yield the best Elixir of all, granting the audience greater awareness of us and our world (Citizen Kane). The Hero may show the benefit of the Elixir, using it to heal a physical or emotional wound, or accomplish tasks that had been feared in the Ordinary World. The Return signals a time when we distribute rewards and punishments, or celebrate the Journey’s end with revelry or marriage.

  What elixir (lesson) has your Lead character brought back to the community?

  A Note on “The Tyranny of the Premise”

  Maybe it’s just me, but I’ve never been able to embrace the concept of “the premise.” Some teachers absolutely insist upon it. Indeed, James N. Frey, in his book How to Write a Damn Good Novel, argues that authors must kneel before the “tyranny” of the premise.

  Just what is a premise, anyway? Turns out it’s just another way of expressing theme or meaning. It’s a conflict of values leading to a moral conclusion. Lajos Egri, in The Art of Dramatic Writing, illustrates with examples such as:

  Foolish generosity leads to poverty.

  Craftiness digs its own grave.

  Dissipation leads to self-destruction.

  And so on. You know what that sounds like? A short version of your Lead character’s life lesson. And the stuff of the elixir.

  Do you need to know your meaning before you begin writing? I suppose some writers like to work from a premise, but truth be told I’ve not met many. It is too much like writing in order to prove something, and such fiction can come off as too manipulative or out of balance. That’s probably the main thrust of my resistance to the term premise. Also the word tyranny. Who likes tyrant? Writing is hard enough.

  To be fair, neither Frey nor Egri insist you have to start with a premise in mind before you write. You can find it later, during the writing or revision.

  I just like life lesson better because it sounds more like the real-life struggle of the character in the novel.

  Try this:

  Take three of your favorite novels and write out the theme as a life lesson learned. Do it in the voice of the Lead character.

  7

  BRAINSTORMING ENDINGS

  Don’t skip this section, pantsers! You may be so against planning that your knickers get in a twist (even if you don’t wear knickers), but what I’m telling you here will prove helpful.

  Several times in my career I’ve decided to write a novel just by getting an idea for a great climactic scene. I’ve envisioned courtroom dramas, unique deaths, and sometimes emotionally resonant scenes between characters

  I once wrote a whole screenplay because I pictured a father-son reconciliation scene while listening to the musical rendition of “Unchained Melody.” That scene was so powerful me I wanted to write the script just to find out how to get there.

  I did write the script, and sent it to Ed Harris, but never heard back, which is a pity because it would have earned him a Best Actor Oscar.

  Ahem.

  You will note, of course, that this is one step further than knowing the ending shape (as discussed in Chapter 5). This is more specific and therefore more emotional to you, the author.

  Emotion is the great driving force of fiction, so the more of it you have for your story, the better.

  Remember, a specific ending is not etched in stone. It’s always subject to change without notice. But the added inner fire it gives you will elevate all your writing.

  Further, having a specific ending in place before you start writing opens up all sorts of organic story and scene ideas. The brainstormed ending is your writer’s mind sending you a message. It’s saying there’s something deep here and I want you to explore it!

  Alfred Hitchcock’s classic, North By Northwest, came about because Hitch envisioned a climactic chase across the giant stone heads of Mount Rushmore. He hired a well-known screenwriter, Ernest Lehman, to flesh out everything else. And boy, did he.

  I’ve heard mystery writers say something along the following lines: I just write. I write without knowing who committed the murder. Because if I don’t know who the murderer is, it’s pretty certain the reader won’t, either.

  While this sentiment sounds logical, it is based on a false dichotomy. If you do know who your killer is going to be that does not, perforce, mean the reader will have a clue. The art of writing a mystery is in the hiding of things, the red herrings, and the skillful reveal. You don’t get those things simply by virtue of not knowing who the villain is beforehand.

  Let’s just say this line of thought is more or less fodder for the pantsing writer. Which is fine as long as you realize that your first draft is for discovery, and once discovered you’ll have a lot of re-writing to do.

  That’s one approach.

  The other is to know your ending so you can plant clues and red herrings skillfully and purposefully all along the way.

  This doesn’t mean you have to massively outline your novel before writing it. As one of the great twisty-turny thriller writers, Harlan Coben (a non-outliner) has said, knowing the ending makes the writing “like driving from New Jersey to California. I may go Route 60, I may go via the Straits of Magellan or stop over in Tokyo . . . but I’ll end up in California.”

  So how do you brainstorm an ending?

  I like using music. As I mentioned above, it was a piece of music that gave me the ending scene for one of the great unmade screenplays in Hollywood history.

  I am partial to movie soundtracks. I have them playlisted by mood—heartfelt, suspense, action, love, and so on. I use these for writing scenes and picturing characters, and especially for brainstorming endings.

  As the music play
s, close your eyes and let a movie unfold in your mind. Don’t stop it, just watch it. Allow your characters to improvise. Let them jump into different settings. Eventually, one of them is going to hit you on an emotional level, and that’s when you stop and jot down a note about the scene.

  Repeat with other music.

  Pretty soon, you’ll have a list of possible endings. Which carries with it the deepest impact? You don’t have to make sense out of it completely, not at this point. What you want is something to write toward. That’s all you need.

  If you are a plotter, you can create your outline with this ending in mind.

  If you are a pantser, the ending will be there for you, a long way away, just to keep you from falling off a cliff.

  There’s another point where you should brainstorm, and that is when you are almost finished with the book.

  Perhaps your original ending still works. That’s a bonus. Use it!

  If you’re not sure, then use my SPAD method: Stew, Brew, Accrue, Do.

  I detail this method to you out of professional obligation, because it works for me. But because I am not a doctor (nor do I play one on TV), I advise simply that you take this with a grain of coffee and modify it to fit your needs.

  Stew

  By the time I reach the last fifty pages of my novel, I pretty much know how it is going to end. I’ve had an ending in mind from the beginning and it was part of my plot map.