The 2006 Christopher Nolan film The Prestige, based on the novel by Christopher Priest, has a lot to tell us about how to write compelling stories.
Though there are many things to learn from the way it presents us with a story of two rival magicians, perhaps the most important learning point is the concept embodied in the title itself.
For those who don’t know, “The Prestige” is the third act of any magician’s trick, in which what they previously destroyed, or made to disappear, returns – to the delight and adulation of the crowd. As Michael Caine’s character, Cutter, observes, “It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
“It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
Our mythologies and religions are full to bursting with gods and human beings who return from death. From the wounded King Arthur, who will one day come again from beyond the veils of Avalon, to the crucified Jesus who lay three days dead in the tomb yet rose, to the dismembered god Osiris, who was reforged from scattered body parts by his wife, Isis, the list goes on and on.
The recurrence of this image throughout history and across innumerable cultures is evidence that the idea of a “prestige” is hardwired into our deepest psyche. We yearn for what was lost to return to us. The concept has filtered through into modern-day popular culture too: The Return of the King, The Return of the Jedi, even Superman Returns. There is a sense that true heroes, true saviours, come back to us when we need them the most.
Of course, sometimes this deep human need is exploited for quick cash grabs, as in the “endless sequel” effect in which our favourite characters just keep coming back time and time again. In these instances, often it is the case that the story begins to lose all meaning, because there are no real stakes; the heroes are invulnerable, and even if they seem to die, they always come back without a scratch.
However, when this mythic principle is handled with sincerity and integrity, it can produce some of the most startling and moving moments in cinema, prose, poetry, indeed, any medium. The initial disappearance of the figure who is going to return need not even be via death; it can be just that: a disappearance.
Consider how Gandalf leaving Helm’s Deep in the second Lord of the Rings movie shapes the narrative. He leaves the story for some time, long enough we almost forget where he’s gone off to, but at the critical moment, when all hope seems lost, he returns to save the day (bringing with him the “lost” Rohirrim) in a sublime eucatastrophe.
I often hear writers talking about how they have “written themselves into a corner” by disposing of an artefact, character, or even a place. Many of these issues can be fixed by building the concept of a “prestige” into your fiction from the get go.
And on that subject, I always admire a writer who has the guts to kill their characters, and sometimes a character simply has to die, and die forever, for a story to end, for it to have any meaning. But whilst the bitter fruit of death, or loss, is sometimes what is needed to round out a tale, the far sweeter fruit of return also has its place. This is more true of horror, not less.
In Nolan’s 2010 film Inception, he remarked that “Positive emotion trumps negative every time”, and I also happen to agree with him on this front. A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige,” a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone. Death, after all, is merely existential.
A return is transcendental.
In fact, it’s magic.
A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige”, a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone.
Joseph Sale
Joseph is the author of more than 30 books, including The Book of Thrice Dead, Virtue’s End, Dark Hilarity, and The Claw of Craving. He is drawn to the baroque, the spiritual, and the mythic like a moth to flame.
He lives in the south of England with his wonderful family, where he obsesses over table-top RPGs, trading card games, book bindery, esoteric Christianity, and anime.
Hello all! I hope you are having a productive creative week.
If not, I hope you are living to the fullest and taking notes until you get back to your WIP.
The Writing Cooperative published an article of mine last week. It is based on an essay I wrote for the virtual release event for Joseph Sale’s Dark Hilarity.
The transformational power of story fuels my writing as well as is the foundation for the Writers’ Mastermind.
This is for all the fiction writers out there.
You’re not mere entertainers.
You shape reality.
The Stories We Tell Ourselves
How fiction shapes reality for both writer and reader
If you tell some people you’re a fiction writer, they think you live in the land of make believe. You’re a dreamer, an entertainer at best. Yes, we fiction writers like to dream, both while we’re awake and asleep. Sure, we like to indulge in our fantasies. And of course, we like to escape. However, there is a much greater part of it that many don’t fully appreciate.
Fiction Teaches Us
Storytelling is humanity’s way of learning, or recording history, of remembering the great ones. It is our way to warn, to educate, and to inspire. We pass on our wisdom to the next iteration of humanity, so instead of everyone having to learn all life lessons from scratch, we don’t have to reinvent the wheel.
The Hero’s Journey, the 5 Acts, the Epic Quest — you see it in everything we do—in marketing, in conversation, in our entertainment. As an outside entity looking in, you would think we are obsessed with ourselves. We tell ourselves stories about ourselves over and over and over again. But we are just trying to figure it all out. We are trying to get it right.
As we move forward, evolving as a society, as a species, and as individuals, story shapes us. Fiction is the vehicle. Reality is too close to our noses to see. Story is easy to understand and an engaging way to learn. This is why the wise men of ancient times spoke in parables. Myths, fables, fairy tales. Which is more effective? Telling a kid not to lie, or reading him the story of a boy who cried wolf?
Think about the books that most impacted your life. Were they non-fiction or fiction? I bet the first story that swept you away when you were a child was a fairy tale or an adventure. You aspired to the qualities of your hero or heroine. Later you might find other literary heroes to follow, ones who answer the questions that no one in your circle has the answers to. These writers become just as much a part of who we are as our parents, friends, and siblings. They help raise us, in a way.
Fiction Tells Us Who We Are
I remember the first time I read Dostoevsky. I was maybe twenty, and I had never read anything like it before. An angsty and lost person, I couldn’t put my finger on why I was so miserable and frustrated with the way the world worked. He addressed my feelings with a story, lurking suspicions that I never knew I had until his words crystalized them for me. It was indirect, not accusing. I could absorb the ideas, any resistance or denial diluted by the narrative. As he put a name to this unease, it comforted me. It was okay. I was not the only one, even more than a hundred and fifty years later. Not wrong. Not crazy. Maybe I could pick up the baton and take his line of thinking further.
We can be a mystery unto ourselves until we find the right story to tell us who we are, how we feel, and why. The right book is like looking in the mirror. This can be unpleasant, curious, frightening, or exhilarating. It can be life changing.
Books are spooky in this way. They defy the laws of time and space. You can connect with an author’s mind from hundreds or thousands of years ago. You can read the stories of someone on the other side of the world. A tale can be transmitted through air in waves of sound as we read to one another, a message that encompasses the senses, emotions, space, and time, communicated by the vibrations in the throats of our fragile, degenerating bodies. Fiction allows you to transplant yourself into someone else. As the writer, it’s like taking possession of a body. As the reader, you are taking another’s thoughts inside your head. It is a conduit of empathy. It is telepathy … Read more.
The 2006 Christopher Nolan film The Prestige, based on the novel by Christopher Priest, has a lot to tell us about how to write magical stories.
Though there are many things to learn from the way it presents us with a story of two rival magicians, perhaps the most important learning point is the concept embodied in the title itself. For those who don’t know, “The Prestige” is the third act of any magician’s trick, in which what they previously destroyed, or made to disappear, returns – to the delight and adulation of the crowd. As Michael Caine’s character, Cutter, observes, “It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
“It’s not enough to make something disappear. You have to bring it back.”
Our mythologies and religions are full to bursting with gods and human beings who return from death. From the wounded King Arthur, who will one day come again from beyond the veils of Avalon, to the crucified Jesus who lay three days dead in the tomb yet rose, to the dismembered god Osiris, who was reforged from scattered body parts by his wife, Isis, the list goes on and on.
The recurrence of this image throughout history and across innumerable cultures is evidence that the idea of a “prestige” is hardwired into our deepest psyche. We yearn for what was lost to return to us. The concept has filtered through into modern-day popular culture too: The Return of the King, The Return of the Jedi, even Superman Returns. There is a sense that true heroes, true saviours, come back to us when we need them the most.
Of course, sometimes this deep human need is exploited for quick cash grabs, as in the “endless sequel” effect in which our favourite characters just keep coming back time and time again. In these instances, often it is the case that the story begins to lose all meaning, because there are no real stakes; the heroes are invulnerable, and even if they seem to die, they always come back without a scratch.
However, when this mythic principle is handled with sincerity and integrity, it can produce some of the most startling and moving moments in cinema, prose, poetry, indeed, any medium. The initial disappearance of the figure who is going to return need not even be via death; it can be just that: a disappearance. Consider how Gandalf leaving Helm’s Deep in the second Lord of the Rings movie shapes the narrative. He leaves the story for some time, long enough we almost forget where he’s gone off to, but at the critical moment, when all hope seems lost, he returns to save the day (bringing with him the “lost” Rohirrim) in a sublime eucatastrophe.
I often hear writers talking about how they have “written themselves into a corner” by disposing of an artefact, character, or even a place. Many of these issues can be fixed by building the concept of a “prestige” into your fiction from the get go.
A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige”, a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone.
And on that subject, I always admire a writer who has the guts to kill their characters, and sometimes a character simply has to die, and die forever, for a story to end, for it to have any meaning. But whilst the bitter fruit of death, or loss, is sometimes what is needed to round out a tale, the far sweeter fruit of return also has its place. This is more true of horror, not less. In Nolan’s 2010 film Inception, he remarked that “Positive emotion trumps negative every time”, and I also happen to agree with him on this front. A sad death at the end of a book can be devastating. But a “prestige”, a triumphant return, is infinitely more powerful; it shakes to the bone. Death, after all, is merely existential.
As someone who helps upcoming writers refine and structure their work, I get a lot of questions about my craft: how I do what I do, the secret knowledge of how narrative works. All great writing is built on a deep philosophy which, at least in a healthy organism, evolves over time and with greater learning and understanding. Many people look to me for guidance about the underlying principles of narrative and how to work spells upon your reader.
This Patreon, the Mindvault, is built to give you the answers to these questions.
Once a month, I will share with you a Lost Relic – a piece of occult writing expanding on a narrative idea. For higher tier backers, I’ll also be sharing short behind-the-scenes videos about my creative process, the tools I use to create fiction and narrative, the hobbies that feed my creativity, and more. This is your chance to get up close and personal with a fully tentacled mindflayer.
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).
