How To Write Magical Words: A Writer's Companion Read online

  David, nicely put. This is my favorite part of writing. I think of it as weaving. Going back and adding this thread, another stitch of that "color" to make sure that the end is supported but not predictable.

  I had something funny happen along these lines once. I accidently saw a review of my book early on that wasn’t meant for my eyes. One thing it mentioned was the predictability of the end events of Book One. I looked at the book and realized that what was now the end had originally been a middle scene. I had set up expectations for what was to come at the end of that particular scene right before it happened, because it had not been a big issue.

  Now, however, it was important that the end was a surprise. I had to take out the clues that revealed what was to come and weave them back in earlier chapters, where it would be present but not on the reader’s mind when he reached the end scene.

  I was very grateful I’d stumbled upon the heads-up for this, because it was an easy fix and one I would really have regretted not doing.

  The Beginning of the End

  David B. Coe

  Last time I wrote about "The End Game," about the devices that we use to set up our endings, and the hints that we plant early in a manuscript. Today I’d like to build on that by focusing on the final chapters of your project, and the elements of storytelling that you ought to keep in mind as you turn your attention to the Beginning of the End.

  What makes for a great ending to a book? It’s more than just plot, though of course, tying up those narrative threads is part of the process. A satisfying close to your novel should tie together narrative-development in most if not all of your plot threads, character-growth among the major players in your book, and larger issues embedded in your worldbuilding or the establishment of your setting. In other words, a good ending satisfies on every level. Just as an effective novel combines character, plot, setting, and other storytelling elements into a coherent whole, so your final chapters should bring together all of those elements and have them peaking simultaneously. (Okay, forgive the aside, but I can’t tell you how difficult it is to write about this stuff without descending into sophomoric jokes about a good climax satisfying in all ways simultaneously . . . But a good climax really should . . .)

  [Clears throat.] Well then, let’s start with plot. By the time you reach the final quarter or so of your novel, the plot points should be building toward your climactic scenes. Usually this is the point in the book where things look worst for your protagonist. Her planning has fallen apart, your antagonist has bested her again and again, her romance with what’s-his-name has deteriorated, and the world you’ve created is on the brink of utter disaster. Now it’s time for your protagonist to rally, to bring to bear her resourcefulness, her strength, and whatever other qualities you’ve given her along the way. It’s also the time for the connections between your main plot and your subplots to become more evident.

  Pacing can vary throughout a novel. At times plot points come quickly; at other times things develop at a more leisurely pace. But this is not a time for the latter. As you move into the final chapters, the pace should build rapidly. Your readers should be left breathless and desperate for more. They should be turning the pages so quickly that they risk tearing each one, and the end of each chapter should be filled with so much suspense that they have no choice but to read on, even if it’s four hours past their bedtimes. At times I have spoken critically of J.K. Rowling’s writing, and I’m sure I’ll do so again. But I think this—plotting the ending of her novels—is something she did exceptionally well, particularly in the later volumes. Her pacing was excellent; she played the end game beautifully, weaving together hints and plot points she planted early on and piling one thrilling moment on top of another.

  But plot is only a small part of the ending. This should also be when your character finally gets over her fears, her personal shortcomings—whatever has been holding her back. And her growth past this failing should be intimately tied to the plot points that are pushing the novel towards its denouement.

  Faith and others have written a lot about character growth, and it can’t be stressed enough: a story’s protagonist should not remain static. She/he has to grow, change, adapt. And there should be a symbiosis between this character’s development and your storyline, even if that symbiosis is subtle.

  If this is the first or second book in a trilogy, then it’s possible that this time the flaw will keep the protagonist from succeeding. Ultimately though, whether at the end of a stand-alone novel or in the final volume of an extended story arc, your character should face whatever has held her back, conquer it, and prevail. This is something that I believe Neil Gaiman does as well as anyone in the business right now. Read the endings of Ananzi Boys, or Neverwhere, or American Gods, and you will find deeply flawed characters, major protagonists and smaller players alike, overcoming their shortcomings and acting heroically, while still maintaining the essence of who and what they are. Brilliant stuff.

  And then there’s your "world." In my Winds of the Forelands series, the climactic battle would decide the fate of the Forelands world as my readers knew it. In my newest book, Thieftaker (for now that’s the book’s title), which I just finished last month, the future of our world is not at stake. But the future of colonial Boston might well be. In my story "The Dragon Muse" (in the anthology, Dragon’s Lure), the only part of the world really at risk is my main character’s life. But really these three examples are far more alike than they might seem. In all three cases, there is enough hanging in the balance to make my readers care. They have a stake in the ending, either because they don’t want the world to end, or because they are reading a book that threatens our collective history, or because they have come to identify with the struggle of this one man.

  Your ending doesn’t have to be apocalyptic to be effective; in fact, you don’t want to overreach. The key is to make your reader care about the same things your protagonist cares about. Most of the time, that will tie the reader to your setting as well as your character, and thus to the larger implications of your protagonist’s struggles. My favorite author in this regard is Guy Gavriel Kay. Part of what I love most about his work is his facility for making setting come to life, be it an imagined world, as in Tigana or the Fionavar Books, or a real world setting, as in his recent masterpiece, Ysabel. And in doing this, he ties his characters inextricably to the worlds in which they live. We care about the people, of course, but we also see them as bit players in far larger struggles. His closing chapters bring setting and character together so powerfully that the emotional impact of his endings is increased exponentially.

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  Faith Hunter

  Back when I wrote mysteries/thrillers, I was on a panel, and during audience Q&A, the question was asked, why murder? Why do all mysteries have to revolve around murder? Um . . . they don’t. But when they do, the terror is heightened, the suspense is tighter, because the payoff is bigger when the hero finally succeeds. Much more bang for the reader’s buck than if the bad guy steals bubble gum from the corner store.

  Alan Kellogg

  What do you do when you learn you don’t have the beginning of the end, but a new beginning?

  David B. Coe

  I’m thinking that Alan was asking about creative process—what happens if, instead of your book moving toward the beginning of the end, it seems to be moving toward the beginning of a new book. Is that right, Alan? If so, I’m not quite sure what to tell you. Obviously, you follow that new inspiration, but you also need to finish the book you’re working on. And so what I would try to do is figure out where the two intersect. Where does the ending of the WIP intersect with the beginning of the new idea? And, just as important, how do you create a transition between them that will give the WIP a satisfying ending while also hinting at the story to come? I’m not sure I have answers for you, but those would be the questions I would be asking myself in that situation.

  The Final Words

  Stuart Jaffe


  Though I’m nearing the cusp of the climactic sequence in my current WIP, I’m thinking about the end, about what happens after the big battle. What I want to focus on now is the last sentences—the actual, one hundred percent no denying it, there’s nothing left, end to your story.

  In terms of getting the eye of an agent or editor, writers are often told that the first sentence is the most important. Agents and editors will only give you a few pages and if you haven’t grabbed hold of them, then they aren’t going to ask for more. After all, if you can’t interest them from the beginning, they’ll figure you can’t interest a larger audience, either.

  But the last sentences of your tale are vital as well. This is the final word you leave with your reader. This has the potential to impact the entire novel, the entire reading experience. These words won’t get your work into an agent’s or a publisher’s hands and they won’t sell a book to a browser at a bookstore. But these words do have the potential of bringing them back for more.

  Think about the books that have really stayed with you. Not just the ones that you remember fondly or recall a great scene from, but the ones that when you finished, you sat there holding the book, breathing in those final words, and thinking about the entire journey you just completed. For me, John Steinbeck’s East of Eden is such a book. (The movie starring James Dean is wonderful but only comprises a small portion of the book. The book follows the entire family through several generations and thus, the characters in the movie are mere shadows compared to the depth Steinbeck provides in the novel.)

  The final sentences of the book comprise a dying man’s one spoken word in Yiddish (temshel) and then he closes his eyes and sleeps. That’s it. But the seeds for that moment, that word, are carefully planted throughout the novel, so when the reader hits that finale, the word connects all the threads of the tale. For me, it was one of those awe-inspiring moments, where I just hoped that maybe I’ll be able to scratch the surface of such artistry someday—if I’m lucky. Steinbeck did what perfect final sentences should do—tie together plot, character, and theme in a way that provokes the reader to think about the experience and makes the reader want to read more by the author. The question, I imagine many of you are thinking: Great, so how do I do that?

  Endings work best when they create a lasting image or comment that points the reader in a thoughtful/emotional direction. They can provide closure to the tale or open new doors for further tales or even both. Here’s a film example: Cast Away starring Tom Hanks. The final image of the film is of Hanks standing at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. The final scene showed him what was down one road (a woman) and he knows what is down the road he came from. Beyond that nobody knows. After the whole journey he has been on, this moment ties together the character he has changed into (from a typical Type-A American to a man who is freed from the bonds of society) with the themes of the movie (the overly-time-managed society vs. the slower world of the wild, seizing the day, getting in touch with the important things in life, etc.) and leaves us wanting to come back for more. All from a single image. In writing, we can strive for the same final impact.

  Naturally there is a balance that must be found. The Tom Hanks scene works on film, but even just reading the description above shows how heavy-handed it could end up being on paper. You can overdo it and end up being didactic instead of enlightening. In effect, you can undercut or even undo all that you had accomplished up to that point. Finding that balance is a matter of trial and error. It helps to think about what the point of your tale is or who your main character has become and then see if there is a way to utilize that idea. Another approach is to look back at the opening and see if there is an image you can repeat or slightly alter to tie the piece together. Still another possibility is to think of a physical act the character can do to express the story. The list of approaches is endless. You just have to experiment.

  So, tread carefully. It is not a requirement that the final sentences blow away the reader. But if you can pull it off, it is one of the most satisfying bits of "icing on the cake" a writer can ever create.

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  A.J. Hartley

  Thanks, Stuart. I’m a big fan of final sentences. One my favorites is in William Golding’s (of Lord of the Flies) Pincher Martin, in which the last sentences explain the entire book. The sheer craftsmanship required to pull something like that off boggles my mind! In my own stuff I like to leave the reader with something dense, something that packs together some of the book’s core ideas, but does so—hopefully—with a light, allusive touch, so the final lines resonate but don’t clang.

  David B. Coe

  First lines and last lines—I struggle with both far more than I do with anything that comes in between. One of my favorite endings is in Guy Gavriel Kay’s Tigana. In a traditional sense, it’s probably not a good ending at all. It raises far more questions than it answers, leaves the reader somewhat unsettled, wondering what is going to happen next. But it also reinforces that there is magic in the world Kay created, and it deepens the mystery and richness of the book. I won’t say more than that; those who have read Tigana know exactly what I mean. Those who haven’t read it yet should go get a copy.

  I like books that leave me thinking, that force me to imagine what might be in store for the characters I’ve come to care about. And yet, I also like an ending that satisfies, that ties together the threads of the story. Talk about a fine balance . . .

  Making Magic

  Misty Massey

  I love the idea of real magic. I can’t help desiring a world in which something sparkling and strange could be right around the corner. When I was a kid, I used to wander in the marshes near my home getting muddy and wet, wishing the fae would come out and play with me. Now that I’m grown, I find my magic in the fantasy worlds I read and write.

  Fantasy, by its nature, must feature some aspect of magic. Magic spells, supernatural creatures . . . doesn’t matter as long as the fantastic elements exist in its pages. If you’ve decided to write about someone who can perform magic, you must know how your magic works and why. Maybe it’s an alchemical exchange of energy, or maybe the Powers That Be grant the abilities when the character beseeches them to do so. The way it works is entirely up to you and your imagination. But sometimes the author is so impressed with the intricate and well-crafted magic system he has created that he feels compelled to tell the reader every single detail about it.

  You’ve worked hard to create a fresh perspective on how magic works. You know every detail, and it thrills you to have come up with it all. You’re dying to tell all of us about it. The problem is that the reader signed on for a story, not a textbook. Remember, the story comes first. The story is the reason for all this work. Don’t pile a ton of information on its hardworking shoulders. If dropping explanations about your magic system begins taking up more pages than the action of the story, you’d better do some editing.

  Magic systems are as individual as the writers who create them and each has a base on which it’s built. Some are based on natural elements, and function best under the open sky. Others are designed in a more scientific manner, with an alchemical exchange required to achieve results. The religious magic systems depend on a deity who’s paying attention and who’s been properly venerated answering the calls of its faithful. Traditionally magic was considered to be overcome by the intrusion of modern technology. Much of this was due to the legends of the fae, who were weakened by the presence of worked iron. Luckily a number of writers threw that tradition aside, and have come up with gorgeous, intricate systems rooted in the steel, concrete, and fumes of the modern cities.

  You can use anything you want to build your magic system, but how do you go about displaying how it works? Of course you can let your character mumble a few words and wiggle his fingers, but wouldn’t it be more fun to introduce something new? A neat way to achieve that is by leaning on the old and familiar magic we all do every day. Some people call them superstitions.

  Mos
t of us have habits or rituals that we do without thinking about them. It’s our way of doing minor magic of our own. The traffic light changes to yellow just before you enter the intersection, so you kiss your palm and slap the car ceiling to keep the light from turning red before you pass under. Someone at work says, "How much worse could this day be?" and in response we knock our knuckles against the nearest wooden desktop. Two people say the same phrase at the same time, and one calls out, "Jinx!" to avoid terrible disaster. Ordinary things no one even gives a thought to in these modern times, but think about it for a second. What if they really worked? Maybe in your fantasy world, calling "Jinx" creates a wall of force around the speaker while the unfortunate slower guy is smacked sideways by a spectral hand. Or if you don’t send a kiss to the traffic light, the traffic deities frown on you, changing the rhythms of the subsequent lights to make sure you stop at every one, forcing you to be late for work.

  Even if you’re not writing a modern fantasy, the words and motions of little superstitions can lend an air of authenticity to the magical world you hope to create. It will resonate with almost any reader, since we all have something we do for luck or safety. If nothing else, the gestures and words of simple superstitions will provide a solid starting place from which you can build something truly fantastic.

  Maybe you don’t care to write about human spellcasters, but you’re more intrigued by the creatures of legend instead. Magical creatures appear in every culture on Earth. The familiar unicorns and dragons are common to more than one mythology, as are a number of magical monsters like vampires, werewolves and zombies. Other creatures are less commonly known—the rakshasa, the penanggalan, or the Stymphalian Birds—which makes them a bit more exotic. Thousands of years of human storytelling has resulted in more magical creatures than any one writer can use, which at first glance seems like a gold mine. You could write a dozen books and never run into the same creature twice.