The Right Ending

The scene just wasn��t coming together.

I was writing a scene in my current horror novel work-in-progress��working title: The Sweet Sister��and the scene just wasn��t working.�� The scene was important and would introduce critical plot elements, conflicts, and characters.�� I knew what I wanted the characters to do.�� I knew what I wanted them to say.�� I knew what the outcome needed to be.�� I had been picturing this scene in my mind literally for YEARS.�� I had bits of witty banter, vicious jabs, and scathing retorts.�� It should have been great.�� But after THREE WEEKS of writing and tweaking it, the scene just wasn��t working.

It wasn��t like I could just abandon the scene and move on.�� Like I said, it was critical.�� I couldn��t just skip ahead in the story and come back to it later.�� Some writers can do that.�� I can��t.�� Every chapter layers flesh on top of the bones of the previous chapter.

I was as stuck as if I��d tried to go off-roading in an electric car during a blizzard, hopelessly blind, bottomed out, and spinning my wheels till my battery was exhausted (after the equivalent of 30-40 miles).�� So what was I to do?

I went to Choir, of course.�� I know that��s not an option available to every writer of LDS horror and sci-fi, but we all have our ways to serve, to leave our cares behind, and to immerse ourselves in service.�� We can go to the temple, we can teach a Sunday school or primary class, help a neighbor move or tend his or her garden or children, visit the sick, the infirm, the hospitalized, and the homebound, do genealogical research, or simply listen to a friend and provide a shoulder to cry on.�� We all have ways to serve.�� Mine was to go to Mormon Tabernacle Choir rehearsal.

And while I was sitting in the Tabernacle Choir loft, singing my heart out, not focusing on my own troubles, the answer came to me: the scene wasn��t working and would never work as written, because I was being dishonest.

Aspiring writers often ask me for advice.�� Four of the most important molecules of wisdom (such as it is) that I offer are:

Research, research, research, then research again;
Tell YOUR story, not the story you think others want to read;
Listen to your characters��they may come from your head, but they know who they are better than you;
Be honest��don��t force the story or characters to go in ways that aren��t honest.

All of these can be summed up in one word: honesty.�� Above all else, be honest.

Fiction (by definition) is not truth, but all great fiction must be true.�� As writers of fiction, we are telling parables, communicating truths wrapped in (hopefully) interesting prose, dialogue, conflict, action, love, sacrifice, courage, cowardice, lust, hatred, victory, defeat, achievement, failure, disappointment, heartache, hope, and all the heights and depths and glories of human experience.�� And if the story isn��t honest, it will never resonate in the human heart.

I was trying to force my scene to go the way I wanted, to force the characters to say what I wanted, to act in the way that advanced the narrative I was trying so desperately to foster.�� And that was the problem.�� My characters just wouldn��t be forced to act in a way that was contrary to their natures.

So, I scrapped the scene as written and started over.�� I let the characters behave and speak in a manner that was true to themselves, even if it didn��t advance my narrative.�� And once I did, the scene flowed.�� I didn��t write it; Peggy and Derek and the pagans wrote it.�� They acted it out, and I wrote it down.

And the scene was better��it worked.

And in the end, I still got to the place that I wanted to get to, that I needed to get to, and I learned more about who Peggy and Derek and the pagans were.�� And I did so honestly.

The truth is always better than a false or misleading narrative.

If we try to manipulate the truth by molding it to fit our agenda, if we leave out parts that don��t fit our narrative or exaggerate the importance of minor details to strengthen our position, we are no longer speaking the truth.�� And if we are not speaking the truth, we are lying.

And lies, in fiction and in life, can never lead us to a satisfying conclusion to our story.

When my youngest daughter finished my first novel, she came to me and punched me in the arm.�� Hard.

��What��s that for?�� I asked.

��You know why,�� she said, her pretty face twisted in an angry pout.�� You killed off [her favorite character].��

You see, she wanted the happy ending to the story that she had envisioned.�� But the ending she desired was not the right ending.�� It was not the honest ending.

��Yes,�� I said, ��but was it the right ending?��

She nodded.�� But I��m still mad at you.�� She glared at me.

I couldn��t help but smile.

And she still read the rest of the trilogy.�� (And lest you say, ��Well, she��s your daughter.�� She had to read it,�� I would like to point out to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury that my other daughters have not read any of my books.)�� And in the end, she was happy with the way the story concluded.

The right ending is always better.