{"id":2427,"date":"2023-05-19T15:18:13","date_gmt":"2023-05-19T15:18:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2023\/05\/19\/narrative-writing-story-structure-endings\/"},"modified":"2025-02-14T17:11:59","modified_gmt":"2025-02-14T17:11:59","slug":"narrative-writing-story-structure-endings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2023\/05\/19\/narrative-writing-story-structure-endings\/","title":{"rendered":"Endings: How to leave readers satisfied ~ and wanting more"},"content":{"rendered":" \n
\n
\n \n

EDITOR\u2019S NOTE: This is the final post in our focused series on the core elements of narrative by nonfiction writer and teacher Lauren Kessler. Previous posts provided an overview of the power of narrative,<\/a> how to build a story through scenes<\/a> and how to report and write memorable characters<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n

When a friend returned the book I loaned her a few weeks ago, she said what I knew she would say: \u201cI loved it right up until that ending.\u201d She shook her head. \u201cThat ending<\/em>.\u201d We talked for a minute about the wonderfully quirky conceit of the book\u2014 \u201cLessons in Chemistry\u201d<\/a> by Bonnie Garmus \u2014 the vibrant central character, the genius dog, the precocious child. But the ending? The ending, we agreed, was contrived. It took all the oomph out of the narrative, at least for us. \u201cWhy did the author think she had to wrap it up with a bow?\u201d my friend asked.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n

Why did <\/em>the author think she had to wrap it up with a bow? Why do we who write nonfiction, who work as (or are learning to become) narrative journalists, often feel compelled to create a tidy package to deliver to the reader? Why is it such a struggle to write ourselves to a satisfying ending?<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n

Here\u2019s a thought, courtesy of one of the finest writers of narrative nonfiction: \u201cIt is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.\u201d  That\u2019s Joan Didion beginning one of her most memorable essays, \u201cGoodbye to All That.\u201d<\/a><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n

Didion is writing about the beginning and end of a love affair \u2014 hers, with the city of New York \u2014 but I think it is an equally wise statement about writing. It is easier to know when and where to start than when and where to finish.  And because of that, it is easier to write good beginnings than it is to craft good endings.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n
<\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
\n
\n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n
\n\n

Related Posts<\/h2>\n\n
\n
    \n
  1. Narrative as a sum of its parts<\/a><\/li>\n
  2. Reporting and writing scenes<\/a><\/li>\n
  3. Developing character<\/a><\/li>\n
  4. Effective endings<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n\n <\/div>\n\t\n<\/div> \n
    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n
    <\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    I don\u2019t think it\u2019s particularly mysterious that we struggle with endings. The final pages or paragraphs or even sentences of a story carry extraordinary weight. They can and should leave a lasting impression on the reader and often determine the overall success of the narrative. That is a lot<\/em> of pressure. This could be why some endings seem forced or contrived. We must make our point! We must tie up loose ends! This is our last chance.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    The challenge of endings may also be a matter of focus. Throughout the thinking, reporting and organizing phases of a piece of writing \u2014 everything we do before sitting down to actually write \u2014 we often concentrate on how and where our story will begin. We narrative journalists are suckers for a great opener. The lead \u2014 or lede, as some prefer \u2014 is the most important part of the story. We obsess over what that first sentence will be, that opening scene, that initial snippet of dialog, that quotable quote. That\u2019s good.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    But all that focus on beginnings means less, or in my cases no, concentration on endings.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Obstacles to a good ending<\/h2>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Some writers cling to the myth that once they figure out how to begin a story, the rest will just \u201cfall into place.\u201d Sometimes the magic happens. Often, not so much. Endings generally don\u2019t miraculously materialize. And the danger of thinking (or hoping) they will means not devoting enough thought to them at the beginning<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    The mechanics of the writing process can also stand in the way of creating a memorable ending. If we\u2019re not batting out something on deadline and have a few days, or even a few weeks, to craft a piece, consider how that works. We invariable come back to the story by re-reading it. We read, re-read and then, of course, edit, and polish the beginning. Again and again. By the end of the process, we may have burnished and refined the opening paragraphs five, six perhaps a dozen times. But the ending \u2014 the last scene, the last paragraph, the last sentence we write \u2014 is the least edited. Of course it isn\u2019t as strong.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    And let\u2019s not forget the hallowed \u201cinverted pyramid.\u201d Many narrative journalists, myself included, learned to write in journalism school<\/a>, where we were taught that the way to organize a story was from most important element to least.  Using this model, we pyramid-veterans might end the story when we run out of material important enough to include or, frankly, when we run out of allowed room or time.  In other words, there is no ending \u2014 no considered, crafted way to bring a story to a close.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Thinking of stories as a whole<\/h2>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    What to do? Maybe these suggestions will help:<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    The first is conceiving of the story as a story<\/em>, by which I mean a narrative, a tale, rather than a coherently ordered collection of information<\/a>. Stories have beginnings, middles, and ends, all of which are important and purposeful and carefully molded.  Once we frame an assignment as a story rather than a report, we immediately become attuned to endings. The news feature that was going to be a serviceable piece about a facility that helps feed the food-insecure becomes a vignette- and scene-powered story. When I approached \u201cShelter from the Storm\u201d<\/a> this way, letting the vignettes tell the story, the ending vignette was obvious.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Second suggestion is this: Although it is a mistake to believe that once we figure out how to begin a story, the rest (including the ending) will spontaneously generate, it is not outside the realm of possibility that the material we have gathered will lead to an ending as we write. The key is that we have conceived of the piece as a story and conducted our reporting to gather that kind of material. This is not \u201cgo with the flow\u201d advice. It is, in fact, pro-active. It is being alert and attentive to the narrative structure, reporting with narrative needs in mind, then watching it from the outside even as we are writing it from the inside.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Occasionally a story will naturally and neatly conclude: the \u201cand they all lived happily (or unhappily) ever after\u201d variety. I don\u2019t mean to imply that these kinds of endings are always trite but that they are definitive and conclusive \u2014 and, in real life, rare. Other stories naturally end in a mystery, a question unanswered, a conflict unresolved or unresolvable. Some narratives fold in on themselves or come full circle. When I wrote a piece about my love-hate relationship with the potato<\/a>, the story began in the potato fields of Long Island with my mother cursing the volunteer spuds in our backyard garden and ended with me, 50 years later, embracing the diversity of the lowly spud and choosing<\/em> to plant it in my garden. My most recent book, \u201cFree,\u201d<\/a> which examines the challenges of reentry after long-time incarceration, opens when one man is released from prison, leaving behind a fellow prisoner, a close friend and mentor. It ends when the other man, three years later, finally gains his freedom. The two releases act as narrative bookends.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
    \n
    \n \n

    Here\u2019s the third idea that may help illuminate the path to a good ending: Focus on the readers. We offer stories in the hopes that our readers will learn and care and question, empathize, sympathize, laugh, get angry. We write for them. And so, when contemplating how to end a story or when scrutinizing the ending we\u2019ve written, it makes sense to ask:<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

    \n
    \n \n\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n
    \n
    \n \n