How to Write a Stellar Closing Scene
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Welcome to part 11 of my series on scene writing!
If you’re just joining in, here’s a quick recap of where we’ve been: I started with an introduction to the basics of scene writing. Then, I worked through the eight essential elements of a scene.
You can check out each of those articles at the links below:
1. Character – who will be there?
2. Setting – where are they?
3. Goal – what do the characters want to accomplish?
4. Event or Situation – what is happening?
5. Action – What will each character do or say?
6. Emotion (Reaction) – How will each character react to what is done/said? Why?
7. (Incomplete) Resolution – How will the event/situation end? What will make readers want to keep reading onward?
8. Purpose – How does this scene move the story forward, develop characters, and/or add to the conflict?
Now that we’ve covered the essential elements of all scenes, we’re going to talk about three types of scenes that require some additional consideration: opening scenes, closing scenes, and battle scenes.
Let’s go!
The ending of a novel should be like a beautiful sunset—one last beautiful image that evokes emotion and gives your audience a chance to reflect on the meaning of the novel.
Writing Your Closing Scene
Opening scenes get all the glory—workshops obsess over them, writing classes that focus on nailing those “first 10 pages” abound—and that attention is warranted. The opening scene does a lot of work to sell agents, editors, and above all, readers on your book. [For more on that, read last’s week blog post].
Here’s my hot take: Closing scenes are just as important as opening scenes.
To paraphrase Mickey Spillane: If your opening scene sells readers on this book, the closing scene just might sell them on your next book. In other words, opening scenes make the sale, closing scenes make your career.
With that in mind, let’s look at some techniques for nailing your closing scene!
Note: for the purposes of this blog post, I’m talking about the final image, whether or not it’s a complete scene. This scene could be part of a final chapter or part of an epilogue.
In Make a Scene, Jordan Rosenfeld identifies five things that closing scenes should do:
Provide a snapshot of where your protagonist is after the conclusion of your plot
Be reflective in tone
Bring matters full circle by recalling the inciting incident
Move at a slower pace
Include one last surprise, answer, or insight (this one is optional according to Rosenfeld)
Now, let’s look at two very different story examples to see how these scenes measure up to Rosenfeld’s criteria.
Example #1: From The Queen’s Weapons by Anne Bishop
For context, this book is the second installment of a trilogy that builds on a world that has already been established across a 12+ book series. The characters from the original series have grown up and had children. In this trilogy, those children are starting to grow up and struggle to find their place in adult society. At the same time, their parents (who are used to being the heroic ones) are learning how to step back and cede control.
As you read, notice how those issues are being reflected in what is a relatively quiet scene (so quiet in fact that I cut much of it out here) and how we’re getting subtle hints of the conflict to come in book three.
Daemonar stepped in the large…ballroom?…and looked around. Either Uncle Daemon wasn’t planning to do any formal entertaining for a while, or this was an auxiliary ballroom. He ran his boot over the wooden floor that was recently buffed but not polished to the equivalent of ice. He considered how the light coming in from the wall of windows could be used to teach someone to fight in sunlight or shadows. He eyed the various hooks and hangars in the walls. Bows would fit over there with quivers of arrows underneath. Eyrien sticks were already stored in that wall rack. If he asked, would Beale be able to uncover targets used for practice, tucked somewhere in the attic?
Maybe this room had been built for a kind of dance that wasn’t social.
[…]
The men found a place in the circle. Daemon took the place on Daemonar’s left, a subtle acknowledgement that, in this room, his nephew was the dominant male.
The family had scattered and was coming back together in a different pattern. But the triangle around the Queen of Ebon Askavi would hold, and all of Kaeleer would have swords and shields—and strong young Queens—because of them.
Smiling, Daemonar looked at the other men. “Shall we begin?”
Now let’s see how this scene stacks up against Rosenfeld’s criteria for closing scenes:
Provide a snapshot of where your protagonist is after the conclusion of your plot: Yes, we see some key characters interacting with each other in this scene. We see that they’re okay, if a little worse for wear, and that they still have enough in them to fight another day.
Be reflective in tone: Again, yes. Much of this scene consists of Daemonar surveying the new sparring room and contemplating the changes that have occurred in his life. At the end, when he starts sparring, he’s still reflecting on his family—what they’ve been through and where they’re going.
Bring matters full circle by recalling the inciting incident: I don’t want to give away any spoilers, but yes, the underlying sense that they are preparing to protect the family against a coming danger reflects the conflict from the remainder of the book.
Move at a slower pace: Check! This scene is much slower than the rest of the book. Very little actually happens. This scene feels very distinct from the main narrative. In fact, it’s really a set up for the rest of the series.
Include one last surprise, answer, or insight: This scene doesn’t necessarily have any surprises, nor does it answer a question. But it does provide some new insight, by pointing us in the direction that the third book will take. In that way, it is very subtly hooking us into the next story and the conflict to follow. We also see the changing family dynamic. Daemon, the man Daemonar was named for, cedes power to him. It’s subtle, but it’s a sign that the family is changing. Something has been irrevocably altered by the events of the novel and the rest of the series will demonstrate the lasting impacts.
Example #2: From Ptolemy’s Gate by Jonathan Strand
Fair warning, this ending wrecked me when I first read it. I remember the visceral reaction as if it was yesterday even though it’s been a good fifteen years.
This scene isn’t just a book ending, it’s a series ending. It’s a doozy. Obviously, there will be epic spoilers ahead. If you plan to go back and read the books—READ NO FURTHER! But, then again, it came out in 2006, so methinks the statute of limitations is up on this one.
Anyways, in this example the closing scene and climax are the same with just a brief closing image offset from the rest of the scene.
The two main characters—a demon (the narrator) and a wizard—have joined bodies so that they can use their combined powers to take down a stronger demon that is threatening to destroy them. They’re luring the demon closer and closer, waiting for the exact right moment to release the power they’ve amassed so that they can bring an entire building down on this other demon. The italicized portions are conversations that are happening inside the characters’ minds—their body sharing allows them to hear each other’s thoughts and experience each other’s emotions. This paring requires a high level of trust. Since book one of the series, Bartimaeus (the demon) and Nathaniel (the wizard) have had a contentious relationship. They’ve slowly gained each other’s trust. They’ve even grown to like each other. Now, they’re putting their faith in each other. Bartimaeus could rip Nathaniel apart in a heartbeat. Bonding to Nathaniel means Bartimaeus takes on his mortality as well. And, to top it all off, they’re facing a life-or-death threat.
Here’s how the story ends:
The boy’s strength was failing, but his resolution was undaunted. I felt him summon his remaining powers. Steadily, calmly, muttering under his breath, he loosed the bonds restraining Gladstone’s Staff until, all at once, the hopes of the entities trapped inside were raised: they pushed, strained, pressed against the remaining loops of magic, desperate to be free. Without my assistance, Nathaniel could not have controlled them—they would have instantly broken through. But Nouda was not yet where we wanted him. I held the Staff in place. There was nothing to do but wait.
According to some (generally those who don’t have to do it. Politicians and writers come to mind), heroic deaths are admirable things. I’ve never been convinced by this argument, mainly because, no matter how cool, stylish, composed, unflappable, manly, or defiant you are, at the end of the day you’re also dead. Which is a little too permanent for my liking. I’ve made a long and successful career out of running away at the decisive moment, and it was with some considerable regret, as Nouda bore down upon us, in that soaring tomb of iron and glass, that I realized I didn’t actually have this fallback option. I was bound to the boy, essence to flesh. We were going out together.
The nearest I’d ever come to this dubious last-stand business before was with Ptolemy—in fact, he’d only prevented it with his final intervention. I suppose, if my old master could have seen me now, he’d have probably approved. It was right up his street, this: you know—human and djinn united, working together as one, etc, etc. Trouble was, we’d taken it all a bit too literally.
Bartimaeus…The thought was very faint.
Yes?
You’ve been a good servant.
What do you say to something like this? I mean, with death bearing down and a 5,000-year career of incomparable accomplishment about to hit the fan? The appropriate response, frankly, is some sort of rude gesture, followed up by the loudest of raspberries, but again I was stymied—being in his body made the logistics too cumbersome to bother with (well, try giving yourself a rude gesture. It just doesn’t work, does it?). So, wearily, wishing we had some kind of maudlin sound track, I played along. Well, um, you’ve been just dandy too.
I didn’t say you were perfect…
What?
Far from it. Let’s face it, you’ve generally managed to cock things up.
WHAT? The bloody cheek! Insults, at a time like this! With death bearing down, etc. I ask you. I rolled up my metaphorical sleeves. Well, since we’re doing some straight talking, let me tell you, buddy—
Which is why I’m dismissing you right now.
Eh? But I hadn’t misheard. I knew I hadn’t. I could read his mind.
Don’t take this the wrong way…His thought was fragmented, fleeting, but his mouth was already mumbling the spell. It’s just that….we’ve got to break the Staff at the right moment here. You’re holding it in check. But I can’t rely on you for something as important as this. You’re bound to mess it up somehow. Best thing is...best thing is to dismiss you. That’ll trigger the Staff automatically. Then I know it’ll be done properly. He drifted. He was having trouble keeping awake now—the energy was draining, unhindered from his side—but with a final effort of will, he kept speaking the necessary words.
Nathaniel—
Say hello to Kitty for me.
Then Nouda was upon us. Mouths opened, tentacles slashed down. Nathaniel finished the Dismissal. I went. The Staff broke.
A typical master. Right to the end, he didn’t give me a chance to get a word in edgeways. Which is a pity, because at that last moment I’d have liked to tell him what I thought of him. Mind you, since in that split second we were, to all intents and purposes, one and the same, I rather think he knew anyway.
Like I said. A doozy. I teared up rereading it for this blog post. Let’s see how it meets the requirements for a closing scene.
Provide a snapshot of where your protagonist is after the conclusion of your plot: Yes.
In this case, the ending is tragic. We know that Nathaniel is dead and Bartimaeus is once more on his own, heartbroken over the loss of only the second master he’s been willing to bond with in his 5,000 years of life. His former master also released him at the last second and Nathaniel does the same. Bartimaeus lives, but he is also denied a heroic death. We also see what Nathaniel values at the end. With his final words he asks after Kitty (a delightful character he’s had a budding romance with). We also see how Bartimaeus feels about Nathaniel and get the sense that this act of sacrifice has broken through a 5,000-year-old crust of cynicism.
Be reflective in tone: Absolutely. We spend the entirety of this scene inside the character’s head. A massive demon is bearing down on them and yet we hardly see it. The focus is on their shared experience and Nathaniel’s sacrifice. In the final closing image, Bartimaeus’s final reflection is very subtle, but he does spend that last moment reflecting on the love he has for Nathaniel, even if he Bartimaeus never puts that feeling into words.
Bring matters full circle by recalling the inciting incident: Yes, Bartimaeus says it himself “Right to the end, he didn’t give me a chance to get a word in edgewise”. That one sentence reflects the arc of their relationships while taking on an entirely new meaning in this context. And though Bartimaeus doesn’t explain what he feels about Nathaniel now, we can sense it. They’ve gone from tension and distrust to being so close (literally in each other’s heads) that Bartimaeus doesn’t even need to say what he’s thinking. Nathaniel—and readers—just know.
Move at a slower pace: Yup, this scene moves at glacier speed. If you think about it, all that happens is that a demon walks across the room. The rest is happening inside Nathaniel/Bartimaeus’s head and much of that is backstory and reflection. Almost nothing actually happens in present time, and yet what does happen packs a big punch.
Include one last surprise, answer, or insight: Check, check, and check. We find out that Nathaniel really does die even though Bartimaeus gets released just in time to be saved. That’s a big surprise—fantasy trilogies aren’t supposed to have tragic endings!! Yup, my twelve-year-old self still isn’t over it. We also get an answer—what happened in Bartimaeus’s and Ptolemy’s relationship. Bartimaeus has frequently referenced Ptolemy and the special connection they had. Now, we finally have a clear understanding of why that relationship was different from the others and what it truly means for him to have this relationship with Nathaniel now. And finally an insight: we see just how much Nathaniel and Bartimaeus have come to mean to each other. That makes the final sacrifice and Nathaniel’s death all the more tragic. After everything they’ve gone through together it’s a shock to the system. Happy ending? No. Powerful? Absolutely.
Conclusion
I hope these examples will help you think about the approaches you can take to your ending. You can end with a heart-breaking bang or go out with a quiet nod toward additional conflicts to come. Either way, give readers a poignant moment of reflection that showcases the transformation that the characters have gone through over the course of the story. If you’re continuing a series, give us a taste of what’s to come. If you’re closing a series or writing a stand-alone, give us a sense of closure—even if we have to hate you for it.
Ultimately, the closing scene is less about the action on the page and more about the feeling that you leave readers with. Think about the emotion you want to linger as readers turn the last page and walk away from your book. Make sure that emotion is strong enough to resurface when your next book comes out, strong enough to create a reader who sticks with you for a series (or better yet, for life!)
Next week, we’ll talk about one last type of special scene: epic battles! In the meantime, go write a closing scene that readers will remember for the next fifteen years, I dare you ;)
Still not sure if you’re ending on the right note?
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FYI: This post contains affiliate links. If you use these links to buy something we may earn a commission. For more information click here and thanks, as always, for your support!
