Coco Chanel famously said, “Before you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off.” Meant to curtail over-accessorizing, her fashion advice, a mantra for simplicity and elegance, can, in many ways, be applied to writing. From the sentence level to complete manuscripts, writers are encouraged to strive for concision—replacing a dull string of words with one perfect pearl or an awkward stitching between paragraphs with a seamless transition. “Less is more” is the recurring theme of the entire process, and editing is often more painful than removing a Hermès scarf on the way to brunch. With due respect to people in the fashion industry, they get mimosas while we wrap our chic scarves around the necks of our “darlings” and choke the life out of them.
By the time our prose is ready to “leave the house,” one last look in the mirror is either superfluous or a dangerous invitation to obsess. Short fiction, however, might be the exception. While judging a recent flash fiction contest, my fellow Story Street Writers and I noticed a recurring pattern in the entries. Many of the stories had an unnecessary last line, which made an otherwise strong contender impotent. As a judge, it’s heart-wrenching to disqualify gorgeous prose for what boils down to writers’ lack of trust in their readers or selves. I strongly identify with those with such insecurities and recently almost lost a publication opportunity for a desperate last line that screamed, “Get it, please, get it!” When a very generous editor suggested I remove it, I cut it off like an ‘80s rat tail and didn’t look back.
So how can writers ensure that the last words of their short pieces don’t ruin pristine prose like a noisy stack of neon plastic bangles? Take a long, hard look at the story’s last sentence and ask yourself if it is doing any of the following:
Over-explaining: Last sentences that summarize, declare morals, or (in my case) scream, “Please get it,” don’t allow space for readers to draw their own conclusions. At best, it tells them you don’t believe your writing is suggestive enough; at worst, you think they’re stupid. For most writers, a lack of self-trust drives over-explaining, not low confidence in others. Like fashion, elegance in writing should always leave something to the imagination.
Creating Frayed Ends, Knots, or Bows: I recently finished Paul Murray’s novel, The Bee Sting. Murray, an immensely talented writer, trusted himself and his readers to leave the fate of his characters up to interpretation. The story’s ending is very ambiguous and incites conflicting opinions. Some crave a more definitive conclusion—a sensible stopping point, a place or state of mind to leave characters happily or miserably ever after. Effective conclusions can run the spectrum from sheer to opaque. On either end, writers should ensure they aren’t leaving frayed ends, knots, or elaborate bows. An ambiguous ending doesn’t mean cutting off a plot before it’s fully developed or throwing in an unearned twist at the end. Though more conclusive endings require tying up loose ends, perfect bows wrap things up so tightly the gifts inside are often forgotten. The most memorable characters out there are the ones you still worry or wonder about.
Making Quips and Puns: I don’t believe writers intend to be cutesy, but when it comes to last sentences in short fiction, sometimes, they just can’t help themselves. The nature of these tiny beasts (especially micro and flash fiction) brings out the corny-joke-telling, gotcha-nose-grabbing relative in all of us. Journalist Doug Larson claimed, “A pun is the lowest form of humor unless you thought of it yourself.” Humor in writing is only as brilliant as it is fresh and relevant to your story. When a story ends with a cliché, even a funny one, the audience often exits with a collective groan.
Padding the Word Count: Unless writing guidelines state stories must be exactly so many words, there is no pressure to reach or even come close to the maximum limit allowed. Stay within the required boundaries, but only use the number of words your story needs to be complete.
As your work goes out into the world, remember that elegant simplicity is the little black dress of writing. It can go anywhere and never disappoints. In Helena Coan’s 2020 documentary of Audrey Hepburn’s life, the actress and fashion icon can be heard explaining the French word “dépouillé” as something “without ornament…with everything stripped away.” Hepburn loved Hubert de Givenchy for the “purity” of his designs, accessorized only by a little something that gave his creations a “sense of humor.” Allow your prose, especially your story endings, to be memorably understated and uniquely your own style.
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