by Writing Workshops Staff
A month ago
No matter what story you're telling, endings are incredibly important. They're the final note that echoes in the reader's mind, the ultimate impression that lingers long after the last page is turned.
Few understand the art of crafting powerful conclusions as intimately as Kyle Minor, celebrated author of Praying Drunk, winner of the Story Prize Spotlight Award. With his work featured in Esquire, The Atlantic, Iowa Review, Story, the New York Times Book Review, and three volumes of the Best American series, and with a new collection of essays, How to Disappear and Why, on the horizon, Minor has solidified his place in contemporary literature.
This summer, Minor brings his wealth of knowledge to a new seminar, Twenty Different Ways (and More) to End a Story, Essay, Memoir, or Novel, offering writers an unparalleled opportunity to delve into the mechanics of narrative closure. Over the course of 90 minutes, participants will explore more than twenty innovative techniques designed to transform their endings from merely memorable to truly unforgettable. From understanding common tropes and patterns to developing fresh, compelling conclusions, Minor's seminar promises to be a masterclass in the art of the ending.
We talk with Kyle Minor about his upcoming seminar, his insights into the craft of storytelling, and the vital importance of leaving readers with an enduring final impression. Whether you're an aspiring writer or a seasoned author, Minor's expert guidance will equip you with the tools and confidence to craft endings that resonate deeply and linger long after the story is told.
Writing Workshops: Your seminar promises to explore over twenty different ways to end a narrative. Can you share an example of a lesser-known technique that you find particularly effective for creating a memorable ending?
Kyle Minor: Sure. My favorite ending of all time is the ending to Alice Munro's "Friend of My Youth," in which a domestic midcentury story set in rural Ontario suddenly veers for a final, thrilling paragraph into seventeenth century Scotland, where we briefly read about the Cameronians, the religious sect from whom the story's characters are descended, and whose minister, "in a mood of firm rejoicing at his own hanging, excommunicated all the other preachers in the world." And suddenly, we understand where all the trouble in the story's rural Ontario came from.
WW: Endings are often described as the most challenging part of a story. What common pitfalls do writers face when crafting their endings, and how does your seminar address these challenges?
KM: Sometimes a story doesn't know how to end, so it just sort of stops. Other times, a story is trying too hard to stretch toward the profound, and overreaches. Sometimes a writer thinks a story requires an epiphany, or a solution, or a lesson. But how often does a movement of life end that way? Sometimes, is the answer, but not all the time.
WW: In your experience, how do the endings of stories, essays, memoirs, and novels differ? Are there specific strategies that work better for one form over the others?
KM: I think stories, essays, memoirs, and novels (and you could include poems in this list, as well), have so much in common, endings-wise, that there's no sense in building a wall around one or the other. They all offer ways in (and out) worth the writer's attention.
WW: Can you discuss the importance of developing 'new habits of mind' when thinking about story endings? How can writers cultivate these habits?
KM: One habit of mind that can help the most is the habit of thinking structurally: What does the ending have to do with the beginning? What does the ending have to do with the proportions and order and logic from which the story makes most of its meaning? What implicit promises can be kept or upended by the ending?
WW: Your upcoming collection of essays, How to Disappear and Why, will be published in August 2024. How have your own experiences with crafting endings in your writing influenced the development of this seminar?
KM: In How to Disappear and Why, I spent a lot of time thinking about what it is that makes literary "art," rather than the "literary perfuctory?" What is it in a story or poem or essay or novel or memoir that transcends the flat way we talk and think about our lives and the world every day? What makes a story special? What gives it legs? What makes it take up residence in our waking lives? In our dreaming lives? In the liminal space between sleeping and waking?
In thinking about these things, I realized a whole lot of that work is done by the place the story leaves us. I wanted to know more about that. I still do.
WW: For writers who struggle with knowing when and how to conclude their stories, what initial steps or exercises do you recommend to help them find a satisfying ending? Can you elaborate on how writers can effectively blend different techniques to create a unique and impactful conclusion?
KM: The first thing, I'd say, is to pay attention to what the story is already saying and doing. Whatever work the ending is doing, it's in conversation with all that stuff. The second thing I'd say is this: Take this seminar, and we'll spend ninety minutes wrestling as hard as we can with this question, and, hopefully, finding a whole lot of possible answers.
WW: Given your extensive publication history in renowned outlets like Esquire and The Atlantic, how has your understanding of powerful endings evolved over the years? Are there any particular influences or moments that significantly shaped your approach to crafting endings?
KM: Alice Munro, who I mentioned before, is a writer I admire. And I admire her even though I don't think she's especially good at beginnings. But by time you get to the ending, who cares? When the ending takes the top of your head off, there's not much left to complain about. Not only did she do that over and over, but she also did it in so many different ways. I want to pay attention to all of those ways, and see what I can learn and maybe steal. I mentioned "A Friend of My Youth," but some other endings to notice right away would include "Meneseteung," "A Wilderness Station," and "The Bear Came Over the Mountain."
I'm often quite taken with endings that do something so different from most other endings that I have to read the ending again and again, so I can keep it with me for a long time.
A few stories, novels, and essays that have done this for me:
Tobias Wolff's "Bullet in the Brain," Bonnie Jo Campbell's "The Solutions to Brian's Problem," John Updike's "The Walk with Elizanne," Harry Crews's "Climbing the Tower," Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, William Faulkner's "A Rose for Emily," Edward P. Jones's "In a Blink of God's Eye," Cormac McCarthy's Suttree, Cynthia Ozick's "The Shawl," Kevin Brockmeier's "The Ceiling," Edwidge Danticat's "Seven," Anton Chekhov's "Gusev," Denis Johnson's "Work," Nam Le's "Love and Honour and Pity and Pride and Compassion and Sacrifice," and . . .
Learn more about Kyle Minor's upcoming craft seminar, Twenty Different Ways (and More) to End a Story, Essay, Memoir, or Novel, and sign up now to avoid the waitlist.
Instructor Kyle Minor is the author of Praying Drunk, winner of the Story Prize Spotlight Award. His work appears online and in print in Esquire, The Atlantic, Iowa Review, Story, the New York Times Book Review, and three volumes of the Best American series. Sarabande Books will publish a new collection of essays, How to Disappear and Why, in August 2024.
