Thursday, May 18, 2006

Endings are giving me Grief

Endings are giving me grief. I'm having trouble with the endings of my stories. It's like I'm hitting some sort of story ending glass ceiling. I can see where te bastard ends but I keep hitting the glass. I take a long time writing stories, it's a slow process, sometimes I can just toss a story off(which sounds a little more sordid than I intended) but most times it's a line here, then pause, delete line, add another line, sigh, walk away, come back three years later and write another line. It's terrible and inefficient, but it's the only way that works for me. Longer fiction, works faster, it has it's own inertia. But short fiction, that's a grind. The only way I get anything finished is work on a lot of stories at once, and they're all in different stages, from a line or two, or a beat in my skull, to a line or so off being finished.

Like I said, this usually works for me, though it does have the effect that nothing you're writing ever feels new, but lately, endings are giving me so much trouble. And endings are hard anyway.

Just about anyone can write a good hook, but the difference between that and writing a good ending is the difference between having a hook, and actually catching a fish and eating it and rubbing your stomach contently, and saying "hmm, that was a bloody nice fish."

I'm not saying that I've actually done that - and, no, I'm not fishing (ha, ha) - but endings are important to me, and when they start giving me grief I get shirty.

The End

Talking of books with a nice fish ending. I finished Peeps last night, didn't have much to read, because I was up until midnight reading it the night before - thank you for that, Mr Westerfeld, yeah, really appreciated working the next day and all.

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