When the Ending is not the End

Yesterday I wrote a new ending to Afterworld, the manuscript I'd been working on for most of the summer. This isn't the first time I've been asked to revise an ending. In fact, it's the fourth novel in a row that I've written a second ending (though once I went with the original in the end). It's not that I'm bad at writing them. As a mater of fact, I kind of pride myself on endings. My problem is that the story never truly ends in my head, therefor in my first attempt, I can usually feel myself fighting against putting an end to it. But eventually I accept it and once that happens, I'm able to close the story properly.

The scene I wrote yesterday was a little different. I didn't rewrite the ending. I added another chapter, a scene further along in the story. It was a scene I had in my head since about half way through the first draft. I had pictured it as the opening of a sequel if one were ever to come. But after a lot of thought, I realized that rather than an opening, it was the perfect conclusion.

A good ending, like a good beginning, leaves the reader with a sense of who the character is at that particular moment. I've never cared for the summary approach. The reader was on the journey with the character, they don't need to hear it again. I prefer books that leave the reader with an impression of what is to come with only a slight reminder of what has been. And I'm happy to say that I honestly believe the chapter I wrote yesterday is one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever written.

The Last Living Boy in New York

I spent a rainy day in Manhattan yesterday. There's something about New York in the rain that feels right. In the sun, the buildings show all of their scars. Under grey skies, with torrents of rain spilling over their unique ledges onto the mob of angry umbrellas--destined to be left in a graveyard of broken wires and torn fabric at subway entrances all over the city by the end of the day--the grey and silver buildings seem alive in the darkness and all of its secrets are exposed in the glow of electricity.

Manhattan is a labyrinth I've wondered often. Living on the island one needs to etch out certain corridors and explore them systematically. On rainy days, you need to have safe houses, scattered in each of neighborhood. You need places to kill time because in Manhattan, making your way slowly is always the smarter move than going for the mad dash through the wet sidewalks.

When I was there yesterday, I happened to end up around Washington Square. This is the first area I ever got to know when I moved to the city and luckily one of my safe houses still exists. I ended up at Generation Records, the first record store I went to after moving to the city 17 years ago. It still looks exactly the same. It was like being in a video game and going back to a section of the story you haven't been to in a long time.

I started thinking about the city in this way for the rest of the day and how you can follow a path of your memories like ghosts as you walk through the streets. It's strange how a place can transport you back in time. Memories play so much clearer when you're in the place where the memories belong. On rainy days, they seem closer to the surface and easier to return to for some reason.

I played a lot with this concept in the manuscript I just finished, Afterworld. I realize now that it was just another one of my abstracted ode's to the city where I learned to write.