Guest Post | Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

I have the immense pleasure to welcome newly published authoress Elizabeth Rose of Living on Literary Lane!  In honor of her novel Violets are Blue - published in May of this year - she has organized a month long blog tour, stopping at various wonderful blogs featuring reviews of her new work, interviews, and guest posts sharing her own heartfelt, incisive observations on the many aspects of a writer's trade.  I am deeply honored that she chose to culminate this brilliant event with an appearance here at Accordion to Kellie.  

Enjoy!

{via pinterest}

You've done the seemingly impossible. All those sleepless nights and countless mugs of tea are about to pay off in the next few moments. Memories of writer's block and the tears you wept over that horrid chapter fourteen are forgotten in the unmistakable glory of your success. Your book is finished. The plot is intriguing and creative, your characters are dynamic, and your dialogue flows with all the grace and ease of water over mossy rocks. You even have a creative title that evokes the beauty of your story in a few poetic words. You're soaring on cloud nine, singing at the top of your lungs, "I did not live until today!"

. . . Well, not quite.

Before you can start designing your book's cover and planning the movie adaption, there's one little matter to settle, and it comes right before those two little words: THE END. That's right — I'm speaking of your story's last few sentences. They could easily be called the most important part of a book, for they are the lines that stick in the reader's head long after the final page has been turned. You may have a general idea of where all your characters should be when the book concludes, but how are you supposed to draw it all together so effortlessly that the reader is given a feeling of completion?

There is an art in ending books well. As strange as it may sound, it doesn't take quite as much talent to ramble on as it does to neatly conclude your stream of thoughts. I discovered this when it came time to finish Violets Are Blue. Yes, I knew what was to happen at the end . . . but what was I supposed to say? 

There are several common errors that authors make when ending their books, and they normally fall into one of two categories. The categories are as simple as too much and too little.

— I shall say goodnight till it be morrow. 

This is the case of writing too much. You have a general idea of how your book is supposed to end, but since you don't know how to really finish a story, you keep rambling on about inconsequential details until the dramatic climax and falling action are washed out in a dull stream of unneeded information. Sometimes the rambling isn't obvious to anyone but an unbiased reader (another reason why it's always a good idea to have several trusted friends or family members read your manuscript before you pursue publishing). As Shakespeare wrote in his famous tragedy Hamlet, "Brevity is the soul of wit." Sometimes a brief denouement is just the way to bow out gracefully.

— O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? 

There is, of course, the other extreme, in which an ending is so brisk, so abrupt that it seems sloppy and ill thought out. There must be a sense of conclusion to your work, something to show for all the time you put into this novel. In other words, you must leave the reader with something to which they can cling. Having a few strings not yet tied up is mysterious; ending your book with no answers at all is foolish, and quite unsatisfactory for the reader. There are brilliant writers who can pull off a curt finish with ease, but it takes a great deal of talent and experience to do so, and it still is never quite so satisfactory as a graceful conclusion.

Surprisingly, the very traits that can swiftly ruin all the work you've put into a book can also help tie your conclusion together with a unique sense of style. Recently Abigail compared description to salt, stating that while a little improves the quality of writing, too much can spoil it. I believe the same principal can be applied just as easily to conclusions: you start to have trouble when you use too much. Finding the right balance may be tricky, but the results are euphonious.

— Like softest music to attending ears. 

A well-written ending should have the proper balance of conclusion and brevity. Most of the loose strings should be tied up by the end of the story, with just enough still dangling to add a nice element of suspense.  Many authors will open their stories with a brief description of the setting in which the book is placed, perhaps adding details about nature, i.e. "The waves lapped against the hull of the ship, carrying with them the salty scent of adventure." The rest of the book is spent telling a story about the fantastic cast of characters you have devoted your time to crafting. When forming a conclusion, drawing out those general details about the setting once more gives your book a feeling of completeness. The reader has come full circle since the start, and is filled with a sense of contentment and satisfaction.

. . . And now you can go design your novel's cover.

. . .

Elizabeth Rose is a follower of the Most High who seeks to live every day of her life in accordance with 1 Corinthians 10:31. She loves all sorts of books (the thicker the better), is convinced that Irish Breakfast tea is the closest thing this world will get to heaven, dances until her feet ache, stays up until all hours writing, wears pearls at every opportunity, and obsesses over Les Misérables and The Scarlet Pimpernel. Her debut novel, Violets Are Blue, was published in May 2012. You can find her on Literary Lane, most likely with The Count of Monte Cristo in hand, and ink on her fingers. 

The Gift of the Moment

I wrote out this little story based on on a journal entry I made upon leaving Arizona campmeeting. 

I could hardly believe some of the strange things Time did that week - one moment it seemed as if we had been there for ever, then suddenly,the wonderful and amazing trip had come to an end. It flew by with such breath-taking rapidity that it caught me unprepared to say goodbye, to move on with Life's Story.

{Via}

But then a thought struck me, a thought so awe-inspiring that I had to at least attempt to write it down.

Each moment we draw breath, we are shaping the course of the whole rest of our life. Every word uttered, each deed done or left undone, will be held accountable to God at the Judgment Day. 

As I wrote in my journal:

"Every moment carries me further away from the wonderful chapter which has just been penned in my life's book, making me depend more and more on the memories. I almost cannot bear it, but for the thought that just as each moment whisks me away from the past, it also carries me forward to fill the next moments in my life with that which will matter in Eternity, one by one. 

A whole lifetime, made up of single moments.

Each moment to fill with glory, to be encompassed in the light of the Savior, to strive to do His will, to bless and encourage the other lives around me. 

{Via}

"So I can go on living, after all. Not only have I been blessed with many, many wonderful and dear memories, but I find that, more importantly still, I have been freshly encouraged to take every moment captive for the will of my Father. He has given me an incredible gift. Let me not waste it."

I penned this little story based on on that journal entry. 

{Via}

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She stood at the kitchen sink, apron-clad, a song on her lips, her busy fingers transforming the tumbling pile of soiled plates and bespattered bowls into a neat row of sparkling ceramic. The lights were low, and there was a quietness about the room that showed she was alone. The table was emptied, the morrow's bread cooling on its rack, the floor brought to its usual state of shining neatness - everywhere were signs of many long hours of toil. 

{Via}

The girl worked on, seemingly unconscious of the fact that her legs were aching, her hair ruffled, the tasks yet to be completed still loomed ahead between her and the moment when she could quit the room she had occupied so long. As the round enamel clock ticked its familiar relentless staccato, she looked tired, and her face grew weary, yet it never lost an expression of deep contentment and peace which even a stranger could plainly see was a habitual one. True, once she gave a long sigh, but it was quickly replaced with a wry smile, then a little laugh, as she soaped and scrubbed, her eyes gazing through the dark glass of the window on visions which no other could see. 

{Via}

To an ignorant observer, the little scene displayed a picture of inglorious drudgery - a wasted life, laboring away at seemingly irksome tasks, monotonous in their regularity. Each moment she stood there might have been spent in some other way - she could have used her time to give herself pleasure. And yet, she remained in the place she had taken up, willingly giving the hours to perform these small and tedious duties of everyday life. To all appearances, this girl was a fool to throw away her life in such a thankless fashion!

If only that same shortsighted observer had been able to see the joy in her heart. . . if only they, too, could know what it is to have the perfect peace which fills us, and spills over on the lives around us, when we are living for the King of Kings. For this girl had been blessed with an incredible gift, and she knew it. A whole lifetime of moments lay before her, slipping into the passing of time like precious pearls off a string. Each one full of potential, to be redeemed by filling it with thoughts and works glorifying her Maker. She knew that the time she was using was not her own - that it had been given her to use to the best of her ability for the glory of the One who bestowed it on her. 

{Via}

An entire lifetime, made up of single moments. An entire life living in the light of the Savior, striving to do His will, to bless and encourage the other lives around it. Sometimes loosing a precious moment through carelessness or self-indulgence, but ever being given a new one to move forward with, to beautify a life, to be remembered by.

The girl drew her eyes away from the shadowy windowpane. She looked at the clock for a long moment. The second hand moved with almost frightening regularity, continually ticking off the seconds. After the last platter had been placed in the dish rack, she went to the open kitchen door and stood looking into the dusk. The warm summer breeze rustled in the poplars overhead, and the faint, sweet music of a fiddle wafted up the hill from the valley. She stood there in the doorway for a great while, with her face raised to the sky.

{Via}

In that little scene, I saw a picture of glorious dedication - a blessed and useful life, giving of herself, claiming each and every moment for the glory and praise of the Savior. 

I saw her smile. She wiped her hands on the well-worn apron, and closed the door.

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