There’s a spectre haunting us that’s making its presence more and more known. At first, I dismissed my awareness of this wraith, thinking it was perhaps simply a trick of nostalgia, or changing tastes. Every generation, after all, cannot help but hanker a little for the way things were before. Times change, and this is a good thing, because it provides an opportunity for growth and new beginnings, but we should be wise enough as a species now to know that sometimes change is not always for the better. The relentless advance of technology has enabled incredible things: friendships that could have never been, connectedness during a pandemic, access to medical care that the medieval world would have undoubtedly considered magical. However, it is also bringing with it a slew of astonishingly awful consequences, and to my mind the worst of these is a frightening endemic occurring in the Western world: the inability to end stories.
I’m seeing so many writers throw away their endings, as though they’re the least important part of the story, as though the reader is somehow a naive fool for expecting things to pay off.
I should say that I am not some grumpy old man bemoaning the changing face of literature. I welcome innovation; I welcome a broader array of writers and writing styles, and I have done my small part in shepherding and promoting (in my humble opinion) some of the finest of these new voices. I should also say that I am not proposing that no-one can end their stories, as that would be hyperbolic nonsense, and would denigrate the amazing authors I’m connected to who are absolutely knocking the ball out of the park. However, outside of my circle of author friends and brilliant writers, I am noticing a problem, a problem that, if left unaddressed, could have serious consequences for the cultural psyche of the Western world.
Over the last three or four years I’ve noticed a trend, one that is gaining frightening momentum; for lack of a better descriptor, the “anti-ending”. This is where the author decides that resolutions are for wimps and instead destroys everything they have spent 400 pages (or multiple seasons) building; there is not one shred of hope or redemption in it. This is not – I hasten to add – simply the “downer” ending or the “claw out of the ground” stinger, which certainly have their place in horror (or indeed any genre if done right). No, this is a not so much a decimation as an abdication, where the writer neglects their duty to deliver, but yet makes a meal out of that fact, as if they have achieved something tremendous.
Neil Gaiman once said “George R. R. Martin is not your bitch” and that “the only contract a writer makes is that the book in your hand will be good” and people loved it. But we need to examine this statement deeper, because I personally think Gaiman is wrong. Profoundly wrong. Martin is obviously not our bitch, but he does have a duty to us, all writers have duties to their readers. Martin made promises, and good human beings keep their promises to the best of their ability to do so. An independent author like myself could never have gotten away with failing to finish my Black Gate trilogy. My readership was and is small, but very passionate – I don’t think they would have easily forgiven me. We should not therefore believe this fake narrative that successful writers have no obligations to us. They absolutely do.
As I stated before, this “anti-ending” isn’t universal – yet. It’s prevalent largely in the West, and I think results from several cultural factors, which someone with greater knowledge of sociological movements can elucidate further. There are also many bright lights who I think will carry us forward into a booming new era of narrative, if we let them. My concern is the negative shadow-image of these bright lights, the darker forces opposing meaning, beauty, and truth. These shadows are nihilistic, and rejoice in the absence of meaning, in the subversion of expectations for the sake of subverted expectations, rather than to deliver true catharsis.
You have probably already worked out where I’m going with this, but for a moment, let’s talk about Game of Thrones. We understand some of the reasons why that show failed to conclude satisfactorily: the showrunners Weiss and Benioff wanted to get their Disney contract, so weren’t fully committed; they lacked the source-material because George R. R. Martin has failed to produce books 6 & 7; the list goes on. However, I think there are deeper and more philosophical reasons than these. Game of Thrones didn’t just feel like a rush job (although undoubtedly it was), it also felt heartless.
If you look at the character arcs that the previous seasons had set up, such as the redemption of Jaime Lannister, we see a rejection of those ideas in the conclusion. The philosophy of Weiss and Benioff is that Jaime should not be allowed to redeem himself and change. Ultimately, we always go back to being the scumbags we were, however much we “seem” to develop. This is done under the pretense of being “realistic”, but actually is exactly the opposite, for human beings are able to grow. For someone to have been through all that Jaime had been, and then U-turn in the final episodes, was a defiance of storytelling and all it means. This is just one pillar of a collapsing palace, but it illustrates the overarching dearth of understanding quite emblematically.
In my view, storytelling is healing. We tell stories to rectify the broken narrative of the Self … Stories can only achieve this healing when they end truly, when they give us some kind of resolution, even if it’s a dark and forlorn one.
In my view, storytelling is healing. We tell stories to rectify the broken narrative of the Self. In psychology there is a concept called “narrative therapy”; it shows once again that the ancients and myth-makers understood something quite profound: we need stories as much as we need physical medicine, to make sense of the world, to understand why we exist, to answer the big questions, and to show us that we can grow (and sometimes warn us of what happens if we don’t, as with the tragedies). Stories can only achieve this healing when they end truly, when they give us some kind of resolution, even if it’s a dark and forlorn one. I think it’s psychologically fascinating that this problem of not being able to “end” seems to have been exacerbated by the pandemic, which has no visible termination point; it’s an endless suspension of life, of real human interaction. However, this only increases the importance of ending our fiction, of finding a healing there where it is more difficult to find in reality.
I’m seeing this worrying trend in novels as well, which is, in some ways, most disturbing of all. In television and film, there are producers and marketers and other factors involved that all want to have their say, and control the financial resources to a degree; I get that (it’s also what makes the failure of Game of Thrones so bizarre – the producers were uncharacteristically accommodating due to the success of the series and would have let Weiss and Benioff have as much time and money as they needed to make it work). But with novels, there should be fewer external factors, especially in the independent field.
Yet still, I’m seeing so many writers throw away their endings, as though they’re the least important part of the story, as though the reader is somehow a naive fool for expecting things to pay off. I’m not going to name names, because that would be childish and spiteful, but I’m shocked because in some cases these are writers I considered high calibre – the fault isn’t due to a lack of technical ability. This brings me back to an age-old editing adage I often repeat: “I’ll take passionate writing over perfectly edited and boring writing any day of the week.” When passion is there, I rarely see this problem, and this is why I echo reviewer Dan Stubbing’s wise comment that a lot of the best work coming out these days is independent or self-published; it comes from the heart, the Muse, a higher plane of being. It isn’t the product of crude pseudo-intellectualism.
Star Wars and its sequel trilogy are an easy target, but it is good to have such a cultural touchstone as an example. Suffice to say that if we compare the mythopoeic and Taoist depths of the original trilogy (which are not without fault, but they did a lot right), to the modern toy-selling vehicle, there are simply no words to describe the vast gulf between the two. There were moments where it shadowed greatness, where I felt there was hope, but it was always dashed by some bizarre inability to embrace consequence. And this is one key way to look at it. The great biographer Tristine Rainer said that the definition of a climax is “Something must die, so something can live.” This implies a kind of sacrifice. If words are magic, then this is the ritual we must perform – we must make an offering, we must take something away, in order to achieve complete healing.
In some ways, this is the archetypal mythology and theology that sits at the heart of the human mind: it is Christ upon the Cross, healing the world by virtue of passing out of it. The problem with “Disneyfication”, as it has been termed, is that “no one is ever really gone” – these are the words spoken by Luke Skywalker to Princess Leia in The Last Jedi. I love the spiritual sentiment of these words, but they also reveal a deeper level of narrative fear.
We see this in many of the blockbusters – no one is ever dead, characters are just brand-assets that can be wheeled out again at a later date, all endings have to be open to allow for sequels. And I should say I’m not just talking about a literal interpretation of Rainer’s words and killing a character. Many things could die for something else to live. A way of life could die, a memory, a hope, a dream, or, if you are writing a more light-hearted or comedic story, perhaps a character’s pride and hubris could finally perish on the altar in order to birth true love.
I find myself increasingly appreciating the joy of a single stand-alone movie, an open and shut case, as well as stand-alone novels. Big long-running series (I’m talking more than three entries here) – whether of books or films – are ambitious and can be beautiful, but they should not be the default, as this often leads to the writer having to artificially extend the plot via crude means. In sitcoms, it’s the old trick of having the principle couple split up after they’ve finally gotten together so a few more series can be eked out, but this isn’t real story, this is filler content. I admire Japanese animes for how they boldly declare “FINAL SEASON” and stick with it; rarely do animes run longer than four or five seasons. They are complete stories, with structure, with beginning, middle, and end. This is one reason they have such fanatic fanbases (and boy am I a part of it). We can talk about animes as whole and complete artefacts.
If we’re to start a cultural revolution, we need to remember how the story ends, and that the ending may not be your favourite part, but it is undoubtedly the most important part: it’s what you leave the reader on, it’s the final goodbye to the lover on their deathbed, it’s the summation of all your story means.
If we’re to start a cultural revolution, we need to remember how the story ends, and that the ending may not be your favourite part, but it is undoubtedly the most important part: it’s what you leave the reader on, it’s the final goodbye to the lover on their deathbed, it’s the summation of all your story means. Don’t cheaply discard such moments as if they mean nothing, or eternally suspend them with the hope of sequels, because you only denigrate your art. Whatever modernists say, creating any form of art, whether music, literature, fine art, or film, is a moral duty – I leave to you where this duty is bestowed from. It is our role to show the world as it truly is, to use lies to tell the truth, and to show the secret and invisible palaces of dream that can only be described in the language of the imagination. In the words of Theoden in Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, “If this is to be our end, then I would have us make such an end, as to be worthy of remembrance.”
Paradoxically, it’s only when we learn how to end, that we become everlasting.
Joseph Sale
Joseph Sale edits non-fiction and fiction, helping fledgling authors to realise their potential. He has edited some of the best new voices in speculative fiction including Ross Jeffery, Emily Harrison, Christa Wojciechowski, and more.
He has authored more than ten novels, including his Black Gate trilogy, and his love-letter to fantasy: Save Game. His short fiction has appeared in Tales from the Shadow Booth, edited by Dan Coxon, as well as in Idle Ink, Silver Blade, Fiction Vortex, Nonbinary Review, Edgar Allan Poet and Storgy Magazine. His stories have also appeared in anthologies such as You Are Not Alone (Storgy), Lost Voices (The Writing Collective), Technological Horror (Dark Hall Press), Burnt Fur (Blood Bound Books) and Exit Earth (Storgy).
Have you ever wondered why writers block is such a difficulty to get past?
I will tell you the reason—you can’t write what you can’t see.
It sounds quite simple right?
In other words, the real secret to unblocking writers block is remembering the writers’ most powerful asset that allows them to unlock their imagination and in turn do the same for their readers. That amazing asset is visualization.
Of course, if you are an artist you already know that, but that is also why it is such a problem. It does not lie in the knowing but in the lack of providing that visualization with the necessary fuel to unleash its full potential.
So how would I suggest you doing this?
In my book, Mastering Your Scenes, I talk about the importance of sketching to aide in your visualization of the scenes you are trying to build.
Here are some very helpful ways to prime the pump of visualization and permanently kiss writers block goodbye when it comes to building your scenes.
Unblocking Writers Block – Visualization
Get out to a location that is similar to the one you have in mind for your scene and take pictures with a phone or camera or just bring some paper and begin to write down or draw out what you see.
Surf the Internet and find pictures of similar locations.
Find someone that you know that is knowledgeable about a similar location and pick their brains, taking lots of notes.
Instead of drawing anything, use a picture from the Internet with naturally occurring things such as rocks, sticks, buildings and etc. as a base or template. Once you have accomplished this, just alter the rest in your mind and remove what is not necessary. Begin to reshape it in your drafting to meet your own needs.
I’m sure you can probably think of some other ways of priming that pump of visualization and no matter what way that is, as long as you realize that sometimes it is necessary to do so. If you do not, you will find yourself discouraged and frustrated that you cannot clearly see what happens in your scene, or at the worst, end up writing out a scene that doesn’t feel very real to you or your reader, even if it has a lot going on.
The fundamental point is that the more realistic your scene becomes to you, the more realistic you will be able to make it to your readers.
However, this is impossible without a strong sense of visualization. Visualization will not do you much good without it being nourished with some of the things we have mentioned above so that your creative juices begin to fully awaken.
Then you will be left with the wonderful problem of trying to shut down an overactive imagination that will not stop flooding you with ideas. That is a very good problem for any writer (except when it is bedtime).
Give this a try next time you get stuck and let me know in the comments how this has helped you breakthrough your writers block. Also, check out Mastering Your Scenes to get a whole lot more on how to put that fiendish writers block into a time looping vortex from which it will never be able to return!
Follow J.A. Cox
J. A. Cox is a husband, father and disabled veteran. He enjoys entertaining with fiction based on the concept that fact is stranger than fiction and then stretching it just a tad to create some memorable page-turning moments that you will likely recall for some time to come.
Every writer lives life standing on a precipice. We stand at the edge of the cliff, clutching our manuscripts in our hands in a white-knuckled grip. Our eyes staring out into the distance, staring into the abyss. We assume that if we let our pages slip from our fingers, they won’t take flight. We imagine each page taking the fall down a deep canyon. We see them slowly drifting to their destination, never to be read because those on the other side of the chasm aren’t willing to reach out a hand and pull them away from the gaping hole of obscurity.
A lot of people think that living on the edge means having sexual encounters with some guy they met on the Internet (or nowadays on a dating app). While looking for love in all the most interesting of places, and some of them downright suspect, can be harrowing, it’s more foolish than living on the edge.
Some people’s definition of living on the edge encompasses drinking, doing drugs, and having a ruckus party with loud music and cops coming to shut it down. Sorry, that was never my idea of fun anymore than taking the chance dating someone I don’t know and possibly becoming the next special on the eleven o’clock news. I can just see the blazing headlines now. “Blind Woman Sexually Assaulted by Unidentified Assailant.” The article would start something like: woman, 43, who can’t see her shadow, had the nerve to date someone from the internet and now wonders why she can’t identify him. Okay, maybe the reporters would be a little more PC, but why should they? I should have known better, right? Well, that would be my mother’s line anyway.
Living on the edge isn’t about the stupid mistakes people make, like bumping into the wall that I should know is there and spilling whatever drink I have in my hand, forgetting where I spilled it by the time I get back with the cleaning cloth. Then finding out later, as my shoe makes this smacking sound as I lift it from the sticky spot, that I didn’t clean the right spot after all. Can you tell this happens to me rather frequently?
In any case, living on the edge is about the risks we take. Risk-taking isn’t impulsively walking across the street on a green light and getting hit by the first car that comes along by a driver that’s not paying attention. Risk-taking isn’t going bungee jumping and depending on the cord to remain solvent and not drop you unceremoniously on your rather fragile scull instead of jerking you back up into the air.
No, I’m talking about the kind of risk-taking that makes your soul quake and your knees nock. It’s that risk that a man takes when he asks a woman to marry him. It’s the risk that a woman takes when she tells the man she loves how she feels about him.
Everything in your world stops. It’s as if there’s no air. Your lungs even freeze. Everything in the world depends on the response you receive. You’re waiting with bated breath.
And even though, you know you’ll live through a rejection, you know a part of you will never be the same again if you receive one. Something fundamental within you, about you, is about to change. The answer of yes or no, will cement the change and determine which turn the change will take.
And so, my idea of living on the edge is standing at the edge of that cliff. My wonderfully written manuscript, or so I thought, clutched in my trembling fingers. “I have my author’s bio written, see?” I want to say. “I have a whole story here: beginning, middle, and end. Can’t you see how brilliant I’ve become? I’ve grown so much. I researched, wrote, edited and edited again. I put a cover letter together. I am ready. Are you ready?”
Still, there’s a part of me that knows it’s not going to be good enough, but the pages I sat over, writing, suffered over, editing, prayed over, formatting and gathering, and finally trusting my work to another soul other than mine and my maker’s, are going out into the world.
Without a second thought, I leap from the edge, hoping my pages will fly on their own and just one individual on the other side will find my work half as brilliant as I occasionally think it is.
Come and leap with me, as we live together on the edge.
What is life on the edge like for you?
Clennell Anthony
Clennell Anthony resides in Florida and was a storyteller before she could write. Her specialties are prose, angst, delightful passion, and romance. She has a degree in journalism from Georgia Southern University and a Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing from Lesley University. She is also a write-in host at the Writers’ Mastermind.
