One of the most controversial movie endings was last summer’s My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult.
I loved the book and the ending. No spoilers coming, so it’s safe to keep reading.
Readers either loved the book ending or hated it. I felt it was the only ending that gave any emotional satisfaction and left the reader still liking and sympathetic to all the characters.
Hollywood, in its “wisdom,” changed the ending to something it felt would be more palatable. And lost all the emotional power.
If I were a grownup writer, I would write with the honesty and depth and downright fearlessness of Jodi Picoult.
I’ve been thinking and reflecting and praying and reading and wondering and visualizing and meditating and lots of other gerunds about my writing path and I’ve come to the conclusion: I’m gutless.
I write cute stories. I write well. But, with a few rare exceptions, I can’t seem to pull off a surprise. And to surprise the reader I have to surprise myself with a character or emotion or situation.
I try to tell myself I’m just not imaginative but the truth is I’m not brave.
I can see the problem. I acknowledge the problem. I just wish I knew how to solve the problem.