Sticking the landing
Fulfilling the promise made in the beginning of a book
*Note: Proceed with caution, spoilers ahead for Hamnet, Our Missing Hearts, and The Hunger Games.
Openings matter. Every writer knows—the first sentence, first images, first scenes must hook or grab the reader. The physicality of those words, hook and grab, feels right on. I often feel an author’s hand in openings, a wrench of my collar or a warm grip. Sometimes, this is aided by the book’s premise, blurbed on the back cover.
Take Maggie O’Farrell’s first lines in Hamnet.
“A boy is coming down a flight of stairs. The passage is narrow and twists back on itself. He takes each step slowly, sliding along the wall, his boot meeting each thread with a thud.”
This is a passive reach—a hand held out as invitation, palm up. But I want to walk beside this boy because with those simple confident words, I know I’m in capable hands. The premise nudges me, too. I know this boy is Shakespeare’s son, the one who died young and is the famous play’s namesake. Who doesn’t want to read that?
But gripping readers, as tough as that is, isn’t enough. To make them stay, a writer must juggle plot with language, crafting one true sentence after another. All with the hope of delivering an ending that gets them to shout “read this” to all of their friends, the hardest task of all.
Good endings must do so much: fulfill the promise made by the opening; surprise the reader while simultaneously feeling expected; and feel earned, justifying everything preceding it. With a really stellar ending, the author sets the reader down, and the reader turns around to say, “Again.”
Hamnet’s opening promises a stroll, not a run; the words set an atmospheric tone so we expect a twisty-turny hike, with a meaningful exit. Indeed, the novel delivers a lyrical amble through complex family dynamics. William and Agnes’ relationship blossoms on the page; then, after Hamnet’s gut-wrenching and untimely death, the relationship crumbles. In the novel’s final scene, Agnes secretly watches her husband’s play; at first, she’s angry that Shakespeare has used their son’s death for gain, but in watching, she becomes entranced.
“An arm’s length away, perhaps two, is Hamlet, her Hamlet, as he might have been had he lived, and the ghost, who … speaks in her husband’s voice. She stretches out a hand as if to … pierce the boundary between audience and players, between real life and play. The ghost turns his head towards her as he prepares to exit the scene. He is looking straight at her, meeting her gaze, as he speaks his final words. ‘Remember me.’”
This pregnant ending perfectly balances the opening. It’s Shakespeare saying “remember me” to the world and to his wife, whom he’s all but lost, and to his dead son, who he’s resurrected for eternity. It’s a balm to the torn marriage as Agnes sees William’s grief on display. It fulfills the promise of the opening, surprises us while feeling expected, and provides well-earned closure to all that preceded it.
High concept premises have an additional challenge. Because they start with bangs and often take us on rollercoaster rides, they must end with death-defying falls.
Suzanne Collins accomplishes this in The Hunger Games. The story opens with Katniss being offered up as human sacrifice. This high stakes opening is perfectly bookended when Katniss attempts to sacrifice herself in the end, in defiance of her government. It’s a surprise that simultaneously feels expected, and earned.
But bookending fiction with perfectly-matched opening and closing scenes isn’t easy. Case in point—Our Missing Hearts, by Celeste Ng. (This is not an attempt to book bash. I enjoyed and highly recommend this novel!)
Our Missing Hearts is a feat. With beautiful language, it creates a dystopia that feels frighteningly real, one in which East Asians are targeted by the government for being un-American. The story starts with the main character, Bird, receiving a cryptic letter from his mother, a poet who’s been in hiding for years.
“The letter arrives on a Friday. Slit and reseal with a sticker, of course, as all their letters are: Inspected for your safety—PACT.”
This jumpstarts twelve-year-old Bird’s hunt for his mother. It also sets up a promise: Bird will reunite with her, despite the obstacles.
In the end, after a frightening search, he finds her, and we’re relieved. He helps her put the final touches on a large-scale act of protest as the two reconnect. Then his mother has a choice: complete the act while martyring herself or complete the act while escaping with Bird. She chooses the former and is arrested by the government. IMO, her choice undermines Bird’s entire journey (as well as her own goals in the book) when it should justify it. Further, it fails to deliver on the promise made. And because the story centers on Bird and separated children, it feels unearned. Though the ending felt wrong, this book gets so so much right and is on my favorites list.
As I grapple with my own novel’s ending, I’m aware of how much it matters. Like in gymnastics, sticking the landing is everything. After the cartwheels and backflips, it’s what people remember the most, the finish.