Beginnings and Endings
How does a poor ending slam shut a reader’s journey?
Prague 2011
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What’s harder to write: beginnings or endings? The question is posed for writers, but applies to every storyteller, raconteur, to all improvisers and comedians, to anyone striving to charm or schmooze, to every wannabe braggart and huckster—is the initial seduction the greater challenge, or is delivering a satisfying cymbal crash the real trick?
Perhaps endings are the most unrealistic part of fiction. Life has countless beginnings, an almost endless series of starts and launches and births, but there are few endings; in fact, people are regularly surprised by how often the past awakens to slap them in the present. A former lover returns after a long absence; a rude colleague from two decades earlier is seen on a bus, looking hungry, feeble, alone; a distant and reclusive relative makes an unexpected phone call; a forgotten debt is paid; a gruesome memory is suddenly illuminated in a new way. While the present feels relatively constant and regular and even predetermined, the past appears to forever shift. Memories are fragile, malleable—always primed to adjust to new information. You can attend a funeral, live with agreeable memories for ten years, and then abruptly learn something horrific about the deceased: your memory of the funeral is shattered. You’re stuck with the present you inhabit, but the past is forever changing. True stories never end, as the former lover or partner or friend can always reappear. Life doesn’t have curtains and credits.
Yet a story isn’t disqualified merely because it’s unrealistic. Photorealism isn’t the goal. What mars most story endings, instead, is what mars most story beginnings: stagnation. Narrative demands a trajectory. Characters must move forward even amid clear finales—an aspect of fiction that’s akin to life. The university graduation ends a childhood bildungsroman, but the character’s life, the reader surely knows, has just begun; a film closes with a cowboy riding into the sunset, yet the audience knows that the next villain is just one town away. Good stories never end with conclusions.
One of my favorite popular examples of this claim comes from the film Casablanca. Looking at the scene today, the iconic runway ending has enlarged beyond the film, representing its era, a particular moment in Hollywood, a category of stories, a specific style. But the film’s close is deceptive: every viewer knows that the story will continue without them, though the ending still feels satisfying.
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Consider the decisions made on that famous runway. Ilsa decides to board the plane with Laszlo, and Rick walks away with Renault, the local Captain. What happened? The major decisions of the film are addressed: Who will travel to Lisbon? What will Rick do? Since viewers have answers to both questions, there’s little reason to continue recording, the satisfaction is there—a resolution of the major questions.
The unacknowledged key that makes the ending satisfying is that two new beginnings are implicit: one for Ilsa in Lisbon, one for Rick in Casablanca. If you lacked any decency, you could technically begin two new movies at those exact points. One story could begin with a plane landing in Lisbon, and a separate story could begin with the “beautiful friendship” of Rick and Renault, as they stroll away from the airport, but obviously both of those subsequent films would be dreadful.
A poor ending in a novel slams a period on a reader’s journey. Most times the ending is contrived or plotted too conveniently, but the real problem is a narrative’s sudden freeze. What’s the alternative? Find another story; find the next chapter; find a sharp divergence. The playwright Sam Shepard had a good line about this situation:
The temptation towards resolution, towards wrapping up the package, seems to me a terrible trap. Why not be more honest with the moment? The most authentic endings are the ones which are already revolving towards another beginning.
Casablanca resolved its plot, the key decision within its story ended, and that began a new paradigm. The lesson is to never end a story at its ending. Nothing is more unsatisfying for viewers or readers. Whether a news article, an opinion piece, a long polemic, or a novel—stories shouldn’t finish with an expected period, or anywhere near an anticipated, clear destination. To return to the original question that spurred these paragraphs—what’s harder, a beginning or an ending—it’s clear that the distinction is a false one. A good ending is simply a beginning in disguise.
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