In college, in every class, there was always some wide-eyed kid who would ask the Prof “When should I end it?” I always had to bite my tongue. For me, the end is much more philosophical than when to stop making words on a page. The end, grim faced and stony eyed, comes different to each character. For some, it’s a lingering thing, slow and lowly, like a cancer that gnaws them through, inside out. For others, it’s an abrupt snap, the thundering impact of half-ounce of hot lead, the .02 second blurry crimson mist, and it’s done. Still other character meet then in with their grandiose dreams fulfilled, their desires wholly consummated.
In American media, film, television, and even our literature, we like to have an obvious end. The story is over, the lights good guys gets the girl, the bad guy goes to jail, or better yet, takes a 9mm to the forehead, and here come the dancing girls with ice cold cans of Miller Light. Mmm Hmm! That’s what I call a story.
Can you hear the record needle scratching? If being alive and breathing air has taught you anything, you know that nothing ever works out like you think it’s supposed to. That’s what makes a story. That’s what makes drama. Strife, conflict, anger, passion, hatred. A homogenized pattern of set-up and knock-down, completed in a ritual 27- or 56-minute session makes not only for watery entertainment, but an environment where writers can be lazy. Punctuating acts and scenes with 2,4 or 6 minute commercial breaks only further enforces the idea of a lazy audience: there’s no interpretation any more. It’s all spelled out for us. Even if we don’t know the show, we know what line comes next, because we know the pattern.
I think Fry from Futurama said it best: “But that’s not why people watch television. Clever things make people feel stupid, and unexpected things make them feel scared.”
The twist ending is our flaccid attempt to offer the audience or reader an ending that really thrills them.
“I see dead people.” Seriously? That was the shocker? I saw that coming the second Bruce Willis said he’d been shot. A twist ending fails in this: it requires clues. The clues make it seem less unexpected. So we say “Oooohh… I get it…” instead of “WTF?”
But the astute reader or viewer will see the clues, as they are often formulaic, and are being laid down in a very bread-crumb fashion. Remember, Umberto Ecco is a brilliant man and stunning writer. But I’d bet cash-money that only 2% of the population understands what he means. I know I don’t. So, rolling the esoteric and obscure references into your intricately woven plot make it not only hard to grok (borrowing Mr. Heinlein’s term) but alienates the people you want to read your work.
Anyway, I’m off topic some. The End, comes when the story is over, not when the character is killed or rewarded. The end comes when the plot is satisfied, not your literary alter-ego. Conclusion of your plot, is in many ways more important to your reader than your character’s life, death or fulfillment. Because of a perceived time investment, that satisfaction must be made tangible.
Think about The Empire Strikes Back. In that very end scene, Luke and Leia and the droids watch the Falcon blast off towards the galactic core (which is odd, because I always thought Tattooine was rimward not coreward – maybe they had to stop and get some smokes).
None of the characters are satisfied. Lando is still trying to make up for his betrayal. Chewbacca lost his best friend. The Princess just spilled her guts to her man in front of Vader and a snickering pack of Stormtroopers. Luke still ain’t a Jedi, lost his damn hand, and found out his Dad is a shadowy cyborg with an obscene shaped helmet. Is this character satisfaction? No. But, the plot is fulfilled. Luke has freed most of his friends from the Empires clutches at significant cost to self.
Another sort of ending, I call the Anime Ending. In this ending, the plot and characters are left unsatisfied. It’s much closer to real life. The bad guys get away, the good guys usually end up face down in the gutter. The heroine dies of cancer and the treasure sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
All that said, you still have a problem: when to end your story? Don’t take my advice. Sometimes I just stop typing. Sometimes I end it in mid sentence. I like to end ‘em with an “are you serious” moment, a half ending, a non-ending. The pages may stop, but the actions of the characters don’t. You really gonna hack out another page of Jack Butcher making toast the next morning, reflecting on how much respect her still has for her, and how the sunlight plays through the automatic sprinklers in his backyard? Or you gonna end it a page before, when Jack Butcher is holding her against the sweaty sheets, his hot breath causing waves of goosebumps to roll over her flesh, even as their spent, yet still entertwined forms collapse together, closer than either could have imagined?
Hell, maybe even page before when she drop her dress to floor and says in a thick husky voice “Why don’t you find out, Jack?”