Life often ends without a final chapter.

In a book, we know what happens and why it happens. Life, unfortunately, is not always summed up at the end.

I have heard it argued for as long as I’ve been writing.

Does art imitate life?

Or does life imitate art?

Now let me take that one step farther.

Do novels and life have anything in common?

On the surface, they have a lot.

Both novels and life have characters. Some get along, and some don’t. They have conflicts and disappointments and frustrations and numerous pages of grief and sadness.

A novel is all about love, hate, power, greed, jealousy, ambition, and redemption.

And so is life.

But that’s where it ends, and one primary difference raises its ugly head.

A novel has a final chapter, that last confrontation between good and evil where puzzles are solved, questions are answered, mysteries are resolved, people live happily ever after or go their separate ways, still resolute in their own decisions. Suspects are acquitted or shipped off to prison.

We know what happens and why it happened.

For example, here are my final words written for Back Side of a Blue Moon:

Doc grimaced as he stood, took her hand, and walked across the dry brittle farmstead toward the well.  His boots trudged through the same sand, past the same bull nettle, along the same stunted cotton rows. Somehow, with black crude stuck on the bottom of his boots, the earth didn’t feel so forlorn, so desolate anymore.

He hadn’t beaten the land. He hadn’t tamed it. And he certainly hadn’t civilized it. But the godforsaken land, for whatever reason, on one hot and sultry night, decided to have mercy on him.  Doc would never know why.

“You know,” he told Eudora as he leaned against the shattered rig floor, “I always hoped I’d find it. I always wanted to find it. I always dreamed of finding it. After a while, I feared it might not even exist, not for me anyway. I figured I was simply destined to go through life and never find it or know what it feels like. But I can touch it. I can taste it. For once in a lifetime, my life somehow feels like it might mean something after all.”

“I believed you even when I had my doubts,” Eudora said softly.

“It was here all the time,” Doc said, “here on the back side of a blue moon.”

Eudora placed her head against his chest. “I knew you would find oil,” she said softly. “I knew it all the time.”

Doc held her close and gently kissed the bruises on her face.

“I wasn’t talking about oil,” he said.

 

Life, unfortunately, is not always summed up at the end.

We have been told there was a lone gunman accused of assassinating President John F. Kennedy. But after almost fifty years, the case is still tainted with controversy and conspiracy theories. Did Lee Harvey pull the trigger? Was it the man on the grassy knoll? Did someone fire the fatal shots from a manhole in the middle of the street? Was the hit ordered by Russia, by the CIA, by the mob?

We still don’t know for sure.

And that takes me back to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Was the murder ordered by Southerners intent on exacting their measure of revenge after a long and brutal Civil War? Or was he gunned down at the request of the Secretary of War who was angry because Lincoln wanted to unite the country again? The Secretary was demanding that the South be treated as vanquished foes. John Wilkes Booth, from all accounts, fired the shot, but was he really killed, or did he escape? There are historians in Granbury, Texas, who swear that Booth rode into town during the 1870s and tended bar under the name of St. John. But he drank a lot, quoted long passages of Shakespeare, said he had been an actor, performed one-man shows, and privately admitted to being Booth.

Was he, or was he not?

We still don’t know for sure.

Amelia Earhart was the sweetheart of the skies. But she vanished during a flight around the world, and no word was ever heard of her again. Explorers still search for traces of the ill-fated flight and occasionally think they have found some relic on some remote island.  But they come home disillusioned.

And we still don’t know for sure what happened to her.

Children are missing. Their pictures are plastered on milk cartons. They walked down the street one day, and suddenly they don’t exist anymore.

A soldier never comes home from Vietnam.

A husband never comes home from work.

A high school junior walks into a classroom and pulls a pistol from his book bag and shoots as many as he can before someone shoots him.

A neighbor next door walks out into the backyard, sits beside the pool in a lawn chair, downs a jigger of bourbon, and places .38 caliber slug in his brain.

And we are left to wonder:

Why?

Why?

Why?

And we never know why.

Life is a cruel and terrible author.

Life doesn’t write the final chapter.

Please click HERE to find Back Side of a Blue Moon on Amazon.

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  • Ergo fiction. Otherwise, how would we learn? The moral, ‘Bad things happen,’ is generally not something educational in itself. Stories reflect on the meaning, which may be something knowable only to the Almighty. And try to make meaning fit the abridged verson of reality encapsulated in the story.

    Real life is messy and incomplete. I think it is a mistake to make stories end too much like life. I want answers.

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