Happy Endings (?)

How does one create the perfect (or best) finish to a book?

At the moment I'm struggling with this problem in my writing. Writers often worry about the "hook" at the beginning of a novel, or live in dread of the "sagging" middle section. Neither of these issues have dogged me, but finding the right way to tie everything together and send the story on its merry way has become a nagging question.

Part of the problem derives from the fact that my novel is the first in a series. Therefore the crisis at hand becomes my ability to wrap up the tension and key problems of the first book in a satisfying way (for both the reader and myself), while simultaneously opening the door to the second book. I know what's going to happen in the next books, I'm already deeply invested in the plot and character developments that occur AFTER the conclusion of the first book.

So how can I then make sure the first book ends in such a way that editors are convinced it not only has a life of its own, but also begs for a follow up? Since so many best-sellers are series I know this achievement is possible. I also remind myself of the way that The Empire Strikes Back leaves so many questions unanswered, but is far and away my favorite of the Star Wars trilogy. And features this epic-win romantic dialogue:



How do you bring your writing to the finish line. What are the key components of a truly good ending?

Word Murder

Colder and far away.....

During my visit to the Golden State, I was subjected to weather reports warning me of the terrible cold (50 degrees) that had descended on San Francisco.

"Hah!" says the girl from the land of sub-zero, and wraps another scarf around her neck.

Now that I'm back in Minnesota it's time to apply all that wonderful advice from my conference. Namely, I will soon be engaged in adverbicide. The greatest sin of emerging writers, like myself, is that of overwriting. While we may think that big words and flowery prose are gifts to the world, they are in fact obstructions to a great story. Having sinned against my own novel, acts of contrition are in order.

The View is Much Better Up Here

After the great angst that was my last post, I am abashed to admit that I've arrived in San Francisco......and all appears fabulous. The conference has yet to begin, but simply the fact that the venue is the Mark Hopkins Intercontinental renders the experience already delectable. It didn't hurt that my flight was uneventful, on time, and turbulence free. I also met a very kind gentleman who gave me an overview of his Amazon Kindle (it looks really cool, I want one!), which is making waves in the book business, and was even so gracious as to encourage me to keep writing because his teenage daughter would probably love my novel about werewolves. Since she is my target audience, I found such words very inspiring and I hope someday she is one of my first and most enthusiastic fans. Thanks again, airplane neighbor!

From my new perch on Nob Hill, Wonderland appears much less daunting. So I'll frolic on the other side of the looking glass with steps full of optimism. If I'm lucky enough I'll find a Cheshire Cat to guide my steps. But I won't try out any "drink me" flasks or "eat me" snacks I happen upon while I'm visiting - it is still Wonderland after all.

Neil Gaiman at the Grocery Story

Since my last post celebrated Neil Gaiman's Newberry, I thought I'd trot out my too-frequent thoughts about a real life encounter with he-who-I-wish-was-my-mentor. These day-time musings emerged to haunt my thoughts when I learned that Gaiman lives near the Twin Cities (which automatically made me feel cooler by association, since I live in the same place that he does).

So here is the scenario of what would happen should Andrea run into Neil Gaiman at the grocery store, or Spyhouse, or the Electric Fetus, MIA, my office at Macalester (these are places that I go, I have no idea where Neil Gaiman spends his time in the Minneapolis/St. Paul region. He certainly has not shown up at my office):

I am in the produce section holding a pomegranate and thinking about Persephone. A person next to me picks up another pomegranate and turns it over in his hand. I look up and my jaw drops. Neil Gaiman, being a polite person, smiles in a civil way and takes another pomegranate. Because pomegranates are wonderful and of course having more than one is a nice idea.

I stare and wait for the floor to open up so that Neil Gaiman and I are swallowed by Twin Cities Below (is there a Twin Cities Below Mr. Gaiman?). Whenever this happens we wander through the underworld and I save Neil Gaiman from the giant mosquito or rabid loon that guards the labyrinth, which I'm certain is located beneath the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden. Mr. Gaiman returns happily to his family and, grateful for my heroics, offers to critique my writing and introduce me and my novel to his agent.

But the floor doesn't open up and I am still gaping at Neil Gaiman.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman," I say.
His smile becomes gracious. "Yes."
I am still staring. Neil Gaiman shuffles his feet.
"Oh my god, you're Neil Gaiman." I say again. I am unable to blink.
Neil Gaiman grips the pomegranate more tightly and looks at the bananas like they are an escape hatch.
The flood gates open. "My name is Andrea and Neverwhere changed my life. I write and I really want to get published, and did I mention that American Gods changed my life. I write YA urban fantasy and did I mention that the Graveyard Book changed my life. And I hope your dog feels better soon, my dog's had a hard time lately too. He's a pug so his sinuses completely freeze in the winter and he can't breathe. And did I mention how much I love Sandman and that what you write about writing helps me to write. Did I mention that I'm trying to be a writer? Congratulations on your Newberry."
I take a breath and notice that Neil Gaiman isn't standing in front of me any more, but there is a pomegranate rolling along the floor. I am devastated because Twin Cities Below must have taken him but not me.

I sigh and wander into the tea/coffee aisle. I convince myself that the conversation went very well. The next day I am served a restraining order.

Alas, alas I should not meet Neil Gaiman, lest I end up a mirror-image of that crazy fangirl from Flight of the Conchords. My writing career would surely be over before it began.

Gaiman's Newberry

I just read Neil Gaiman's post that his Graveyard Book won the Newberry. I almost started jumping up and down and shrieking, but I'm in my office so no dice. But I'm shrieking on the inside, more than thrilled as he is my #1 writing role model. Grats, Neil Gaiman I'm laughing and swearing too!

The whys and wherefores

Writing doesn't completely represent a new way of life for me. It's more of a dream revisited. My writing is nearly as old as any of my memories. I've always composed stories go to along with life - or to take me outside it.

Then graduate school happened. While pursuing a Ph.D. in American history all my energies were channeled into that endeavor, and writing and reading non-history fare pretty much fell off the map for me.

But I finished the Ph.D. and got a fantastic job. Having done all that I decided to reclaim favorite pursuits. I spent my childhood summers working on a ranch twenty minutes from Ashland, Wisconsin. I found a horse, was puffed up with pride, and then the horse jumped on my foot and shattered it.

I was on crutches for the rest of the summer. No walking, no adventures. I had a lot of time to think.

A latent desire pushed out from inside me and begged to be addressed. I needed to write again, to write in the way that I'd always written. It was like coming back to myself. So I sat down (well, I was already sitting down - broken foot, remember?) and began to write. And now I'm writing novels. Or trying.

If you're interested in giving feedback on my writing, I'd love to have it. If you're a literary agent and want to make my dreams come true, all the better.

What I post here are drafts, works in progress, warts and all. But I want to have a venue to talk about what is a really painful process, but a necessary part of who I am.

Thanks for listening (though I realize I may still be writing to myself alone). Oh well. Good exercise in solipsism.