In one of my novels I am currently reworking, I have written two endings. This was not an intentional outcome. The endings evolved quite naturally with the second one taking a counterpoint to the first. After writing them, I thought I would decide later which one was better and delete the other. Rereading the entire work of fiction once again, I’m now not sure either one should be deleted.
This particular novel has been in the works for a long time. I think I started it about eight years ago. Finished it and set it aside. I tried sending it out a couple of times and had at least one independent publisher make several compliments about the story before ultimately rejecting it. I came back to the story a number of times, tweaking it again and again before finally altering the entire narrative.
Then this story remained in stasis until very recently. Why should anyone in addition to me care about my tortured process with my novel? Perhaps, the answer is, yes, because it is a process, one many writers struggle with in the creation of a new work. Those internal shifts take place in response to feedback or, simply, to the passage of time.
Self-editing is always a fraught process. We come to love our own words, sometimes too much. But I don’t think this dual ending dilemma I face is that kind of example. In my first ending of the novel Yet in the land of the living, the protagonist comes to a resolution, a genuine conclusion that boarders on reverence for life and understanding of change. It reads quite perfectly, but then I wrote the second ending.
This ending did not appear out of confusion but seemed propelled by necessity. Ending number two wasn’t just a lark. Nor did I set out to correct the first ending. It came about as part of a natural evolution of living in this time of self-reflection, in our age of doubt and cynicism, one of those Postmodernist points of view in which the narrator intrudes on the narrative with a skepticism about our conceptual constructs, that metafiction walking in the door and sitting down with the reader. I could, of course, throw it out, but I would do so knowing ending number two was standing on the porch, looking in the window, with a smile. I realized I could not simply leave the first ending alone without awareness of the second set of realizations about power structures inherent in adopted narrative voices. The narrative within the narrative would still be aware, and I was aware.
There are plenty of examples in literature where the interruptive narratives work wonders, such as in A.S. Byatt’s novel Possession and in John Fowles’ novel The French Lieutenant’s Woman. Yet postmodernism also rejects the whole concept of generalizations, including the importance of metanarratives and “grand explanations of the human condition.”
I certainly hoped my first ending made no claim as to any grand explanation of life and death. If anything, it merely asks questions of us. Still, I instinctively knew there was something missing, that other voice, that other narrative intrusion that was not really an intrusion but part of the fuller picture.
This is a rather long explanation as to why I have decided to leave my finally finished novel with two endings. Whatever you decide to do with yours, it has to make sense to you first if you want it to ring true for anyone else.
In your defense, many scriptwriters create multiple endings, Nancy. So you’re definitely not alone in making this choice. Although admittedly when I’m presented with two endings, inevitably I tend to play favorites on one of the two. Then people chime in and tell me they prefer the other one—and that’s the existential question that makes me scratch my head even more. 😂 So I suppose the dilemma never ends. Thanks for sharing this, Nancy.
Thanks for reading, Troy.