It’s funny how sometimes we can’t deal with the end we’re given. Like it conflicts so much with the way we consider the world that there’s no way to think ourselves through such an ending. It’s a cognitive impossibility tangled in a conundrum. It’s an equation that my heart cannot solve.
Sometimes, when I can’t think my way through an ending presented to me, I change it entirely. It’s not just books, but music and film and art and sometimes real lives too. It’s not just sadness, but unfinished words and strings left untied. I’ve wasted days thinking a way around the death of Sirius* and working out a way in which Georgia doesn’t become a zombie right in front of her brother. ** I’ve spent a better part of my life making sure there is not just a glimmer of hope for fictional characters, but completeness too. I give them all endings.
I understand there must be strife in the world. I understand there is struggle. It’s simply that sometimes I think the characters in art, and music, and life, should win. Sometimes I think people deserve my small additions because I can’t fix the world on my own right now, but I can make the one in my head a little bit brighter if I try. In my mind, whenever Hazel says “we will die” in that oblivion bit in The Fault in Our Stars, I replace “we” with “all toasters”. It’s still sad to me, because toasters are fabulous devices that provide ninety percent of all my meals, but somehow it’s more manageable.
I spend so much time making things okay in my head, it’s funny to realise that I don’t do it in my own writing. Maybe I do fix things in my mind, maybe to me everything is okay up there, but mostly I spend my words writing pain (let’s pretend this results in agency) and suffering (let’s also pretend this is in the name of plot development) for my characters. I’ve split up more friends and family than I care to admit. I once chopped an arm off in the name of forwarding the story (don’t worry, it was somebody else’s arm). Explosions often happen for no particular reason.*** I’ll make a character’s bed and then I’ll litter it with broken glass and spiders.
I’m not sure what this says about me (if anything) other than the fact I am a walking contradiction. I cry (ugly ugly tears) when stories get a little heavy, but only when they’re not my own.
How do you like your endings? Sunny-side up? I once read that you should always write from the place that you feel from, and if it’s an angry or dark or twisted place that’s okay because it’s the emotion that matters. Fingers crossed it’s still okay to do that because phahahahahaha sometimes it’s so twisted I can’t find the middle.
** also, more spoilers.
*** okay, so there are reasons it’s just sometimes those reasons are a little vague…