The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

The Importance of Being Ernest.

'After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day'- A Moveable Feast, Hemingway, p.6

Look, I know the ending of a short story, or any story for that matter, needs to have magic and punch. I know that my endings tend to get wordy and over-explanatory. I tend to write how I think, and sometimes it gets a little windy. All that aside, I also try to write the things I'd like to read, and I'm usually pretty good about knowing when something works and when it doesn't. What I do is try to move away from it, give it some time to settle so that I can really sink my teeth in and taste the words. More often than not, I'm disappointed, but it doesn't make sense to quit it. We are living in a world of passive watchers, and I'm one of the biggest p.w's you'll ever meet, but I've come to appreciate the value of giving something my undivided attention, and my sweat. I don't always like what others want to feed me.

I wrote a short story for a contest. The contest is one which gives a photo prompt, and the genre is horror, which is not my favourite. Still, I realize I haven't been trying lately, at anything, and I wanted to do something small and creative so I decided to go for it. I wrote it, I kind of liked it, and I had M. read it. As usual, and this refers to my poetry as well as any attempt at story writing, he hated the last line. He's very big about the 'last line'. It needs to be perfect, he says, it needs to tie everything together in a few short words. Don't over-explain, don't get too complicated. He tells me that the ending is the hardest part for any writer, and while I think he might be right, I don't always think my last sentences are bad.

But, I respect his opinion, and because I respect him, and also because of my need for approval, I have been working on the last line of my story since yesterday. I am ready to pull my hair out.

Of all the possible scenarios, this one had not occurred to Eileen.

The blood seeped into the floorboards, bringing with it all the miscalculations and the more favourable outcomes.

Finding Starletta had never been their intent.

None of these worked for him. I found myself getting angry.

I have arrived at a final line and I don't find it magical or inspiring, but M. seems to be tired of hearing anything more, and I am too tired to keep at this. I am not a witch stirring a cauldron here. There's no magic in my teacup.

I want to sleep, and I am aware that I am whining. The thing is, I want to be good, and I want to do myself proud, but there is such disappointment in not being able to put into words the magic in your head. By reading and re-reading my words I grow to hate them. It's like having way too much sex with someone, because when you're spent and no longer able to muster the tingles, they don't look so good to you, anymore.

I guess the last line is just like a good orgasm. Sometimes, any kind of line which brings out a tingle is enough to get you smiling, no? Does it have to be cataclysmic and paralyzing?

Yeah, I suppose those are the kind of lines you remember. They make you love the story more.

Argh.