A few weeks back, I wrote an article about where to begin your short story or novel. The article asked you to visualize your story as a party. My point was that you can create the most amazing shindig ever—full of awesome character arcs, strong tension, and engaging dialogue—but if you don’t invite anyone, no one’s ever going to read it.

But just as you must invite the reader, so too should you be a gracious fiction host and thank the reader for their time.

The Thank-You

So, let’s assume your invitation works, and the reader comes to your fiction fiesta. You’ve given them a hell of a good story, and they’re on their way out the door. As their host, it is now your job to send them a thank-you note—a way of extending your gratitude for reading.

This is the job of your story’s ending: to thank the reader. It’s the pay-off. Now please don’t confuse this with a happy ending. I’m not saying that your readers should walk away with a big dumb smile on their face. Not at all. But a solid story ending will satisfy the reader in other more substantial ways if it has, in most cases, three elements:

1) Transformation. Your protagonist has faced whatever conflict you introduced in your opening paragraphs and in the course of that struggle she has been forever altered. Since that conflict was rooted in some character flaw, ideally she also overcomes or resolves that flaw. Maybe she swears learns that she doesn’t really need peanut butter cups to be happy.

2) Victory and defeat. Let your ending be a mixed mag. Life offers us very few solid wins. Likewise, neither should our fiction. Most readers understand this on a primal level. So, if your hero triumphs, make sure she also loses something vital. Or if she loses, make sure she walks away all the better for it. Maybe she gets all the chocolate in the world, but learns that she has an allergy to peanut butter.

3) The final lines are rooted in sensory details. Don’t leave the reader swimming in the depths of your protagonist’s head. Give them a solid image—a concrete thing—to visualize at story’s end. Maybe it’s the smooth center and crinkled edges of an uneaten peanut butter cup.

Do these three things, and your readers are almost guaranteed to come clamoring back for more. So, be a gracious host. Invite your readers to the story with a strong beginning and thank them afterward with a satisfying ending. And if all else fails, bribe them with peanut butter cups.

So, you’ve written a short story, rewritten the story, edited the story, re-edited the story, and eliminated all those tiresome but’s, then’s, and so’s that clutter up tight writing. You’re ready to submit your story to some solid markets, right? Maybe. Or maybe not.

Before you hurl that sparkling gem into the Interwebs or the old-school postal streams, ask yourself one important question: Does my story have a beginning that invites the reader, and does it have an ending that thanks them for their time?

Okay. Maybe that’s two questions.

Regardless, here’s my point: think of your story as a party. You can create the most amazing shindig ever—full of deep character arcs, riveting tension, shocking twists, and snappy dialogue—but if you don’t invite anyone, no one’s ever going to read it.

The Invitation

The opening couple paragraphs of your story serve as an invitation to the reader. Make those precious few words count. Entice the reader. Lure them in. Get them excited. Start with a bang, not a whimper. As soon as possible, you want to introduce three things:

1) Conflict. Backstory or deep scenic description isn’t going to attract the reader, but teasing them with danger or slapping them in the face with tension will. Drop the reader immediately into a scene with external conflict. It doesn’t have to be a life-and-death machete attack, but it should be tense. Maybe she’s running from the police.

2) Protagonist. Give the reader someone to care about. Maybe she’s a thief with a good heart.

3) Problem. Introduce some internal flaw in the character—greed, impatience, loneliness, or an enduring addiction to chocolate peanut butter cups—directly tied to the conflict in the opening scene. Maybe she’s running from the police because she stole some peanut butter cups.

That’s how you invite people to the party. So, take a look at your story. Where does the conflict really start? Is it in paragraph six or seven? That’s probably too late. Cut right to the chase. That other stuff can come later.

In a future post, we’ll talk about how to end the party–by crafting a finale that thanks the reader for stopping by.

As a writer, the last thing you want to do is give your readers an excuse to put your book down. Be relentless. Think of your chapter breaks as commercial breaks. You don’t want the reader to walk away. You want them to dive right into the next chapter.

So, how do you accomplish this?

For one, end a chapter mid-scene. Don’t wrap everything up with a nice neat bow. If a scene consists of Randy entering a kitchen, getting attacked by a werewolf, and killing said werewolf with a silver spatula, then your chapter break shouldn’t be after the werewolf dies. No, it should be when the werewolf first lunges. And then the next chapter break should be when he realizes the dead werewolf is his brother Ronnie.

Poor Randy.

Chapter breaks don’t always have to be so dramatic, of course. Another effective device is to end the chapter by recalling an image or metaphor that’s been used throughout the scene.

So, maybe in the wake of Ronnie’s death-by-spatula, Randy makes himself a cocktail. Maybe that drink becomes a metaphor for his relationship with his dead brother. It’s sweet but it’s also mighty strong. It’s cold but it burns going down. Maybe the chapter ends with him downing that drink and tossing it against the wall. Glass shatters. Ice falls to the floor.

The chapter closes with Randy picking up the pieces. The scene might be over, but its emotional momentum carries the story forward. The reader turns the page, because they want to see what Randy will do next.