Dear Reader,
Writers suffer from an occupational hazard. We struggle to create
workable, even occasional artistically triumphant sentences,
only to find ourselves being pursued by the specter inhabiting
a bad one. This banshee is especially menacing when she is focused
on the closing sentence of the last chapter of a book that has
been fifteen years in the making.
Writers are schooled in writing “a lede that grabs the
attention of the reader.” I have no doubt that is important.
Thank you, Donald M. Murray. One formula for choosing a book
suggests reading the first page or two (sometimes even just
the first paragraph) to help decide which book to buy or borrow.
What makes writing the last sentence an equally formidable challenge
(and joy)? First, it is a matter of pride. This is my best closing
shot, Reader. I have revised this sentence a thousand times.
I wash dishes and turn it over in my mind. I think about you,
Reader. This is my final opportunity to offer a thought that
might linger in your mind or an image that you will recall the
next morning while brushing your teeth.
I have built a vessel and taken you on a voyage, and you have
not abandoned ship, so I want to write a sentence that elicits
a satisfying grunt or a “Humm” of skepticism. Writers
visualize these moments and write toward them, even if we don’t
realize it. It is “all about you, Reader,” and the
last sentence will mark the end of our relationship. It’s
my last chance to shake your hand and enclose it an embrace
that says good-by and...
I thought that I had written that sentence until last week.
Then I had another idea, so I wrote it. Then I revised it, again
and again. Without your having read the book, I am putting this
sentence before you, which is arguably the worst one ever written:
“…These pages posthumously grant Yetta Dine a modicum
of equipoise.”
Fortunately, the Ghost of Better Writing sat bolt upright in
her coffin, tore out of her grave and came looking for me.
