The last thing that we find in making a book is to know what we must put first.
–Blaise Pascal
Why do new writers assume they must begin writing at the beginning and end at the end? Of course this is a silly question. We read from beginning to end, so this order seems obvious. And getting the beginning right before moving forward is a time-honored writing technique. Unfortunately in practice it can seem forced, deadly even, and often causes writers to get mired.
Beginnings are almost always the last part of a story to come together. If we don’t know what a story is about—it’s heartbeat—until deep into revision, how can we possibly know how to begin that story? Beginnings must do a terrific amount of work: They must introduce characters, setting, conflict, the narrator’s voice, and the writer’s emotional stake. I recommend setting aside the beginning until you know your material well enough to then also know how you want to introduce it to the reader. Likewise, don’t worry about how a piece will end until late in the writing timeline.
Instead I suggest first writing (and rewriting) those scenes and reflections you find the most compelling. Use the Ouija board technique: Where in your project do you feel energy? Following our curiosity is a good policy; we want to track down mystery; we need to ferret out those places of tears and surprise. Compelling material makes us want to write. Our interest helps us prioritize. When we have nothing to learn from a scene, it’s probably not worth writing. When we’re highly engaged in a scene, usually we have a stake in its outcome. Interest level is a gauge we must learn to heed. Eventually we’ll have a mass of text in which we’re highly invested. Only then is it valuable to ask, “Where does this story begin?”
At times the story begins with the plot. In other words, the outer story follows a direct chronology, and we must be faithful to that chronology. When this happens, revision requires that we order our scenes from the start of action to the end. At other times, the story begins at the start of an emotional quest. Say you’re thirty-six, attending your uncle’s funeral, and learn for the first time that your father served in Viet Nam. Looking back over your life you can see the consequences, but why hasn’t he ever told you? The quest begins with the funeral but takes you back in time, through history and memory, and forward in time as you confront your dad. In other words, the emotional hook is your beginning rather than the first event chronologically, and the plot of your story proceeds with that emotional quest.
Stories can also begin with a lyrical moment that conveys the heartbeat or with reflection that highlights the narrative voice in relationship with the subject matter, or they can launch directly into the action. Regardless, beginnings always introduce what’s at stake. A reader enters with the question, “So what?” and expects an answer immediately.
Endings, on the other hand, needn’t be conclusive; they needn’t tie up all the loose threads nor land on a definitive answer to your mystery. They should, however, illuminate movement. A reader needs to land at a different place from where he or she began. As Judith Barrington advises, “In your search for the right conclusion, don’t fall prey to what has been called the “triumphalist imperative,” which favors completion over complexity. Don’t shortchange the reality of life in which significant events are rarely put aside in a moment of insight, but continue unfolding into the future.”
Endings “grow inevitably from the stories themselves,” writes Dennis Covington. An essay can pose a question, explore it, and end by asking the question in a new way. A story can trace a character’s transformation from one state to another, better or worse. A memoir can move from a haunting emotion through memory to understanding of the haunting emotion, without resolution. Regardless, all stories contain within them their endings—even in memoir, where our lives continue beyond the bounds of the story.
–Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew
After having done all I can for a writing project—after it’s finished, published, promoted, and my energy for it is exhausted—I enter creativity’s no-man’s-land. It’s a sprawling, barren landscape. Either I’m worn out from the last project with little energy for the next, or I feel used up, as though I’ve reached the end of inspiration’s wellspring, or I’m writing but whatever I draft is a sprawling, blathering desert of words. I feel bereft; I’ve left a lovely world of my own making and can never return. I’m hopeless, because despite whatever success my project achieved, it’s inadequate, and besides, what more could I possibly do? I wonder whether I’ll ever write well again.
Years ago, when flakes of old paint began falling on choir members’ heads, the trustees of my small United Methodist Church spearheaded a fund-raising campaign by parading around the pews carrying signs saying, “Repaint! The time is at hand!” I’m happy to say that moment was the closest to a call for repentance I’ve ever experienced in church.
