I'm Maggie Smith, and this is the slowdown.

The first time I realized the power of a strong last line, it had nothing to do with poetry.

It didn't even have anything to do with writing.

I was a child at the dinner table trying to keep up with my father's witty banter.

I'd learned at an early age that keeping up with adult conversation and getting a laugh was rewarded.

And as I sat there, listening closely, paying attention to my father's chatter,

I realized the shape of a funny anecdote is circular.

You have to bring it back around.

It's true of jokes, too.

The best punchlines catch you off guard, but they don't come out of nowhere.

They connect back to something while also springing you forward. The same is true, I think,

when it comes to writing. The best endings feel both surprising and inevitable.

They close a piece while creating an opening at the same time, a widening of the aperture.

They make it feel complete, but leave space for the reader to participate. Some of my favorite poems end on a

significant image or a line of dialogue that sticks with the reader. Some endings revisit an image or

phrase from earlier in the piece, creating that sense of coming full circle, a sense of closure and cohesiveness?

Others introduce something new at the end that shakes the reader by their shoulders.

I warn students to resist the temptation to tie up every loose end in a piece.

I often suggest they let their poem or essay end on a more open note to allow the reader a way

into the piece.

If we close every door to funnel the reader a way into the piece. If we close every door to funnel the reader toward a specific experience or conclusion,

we deny the reader some important pleasures in the text.

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