End With Something That Sticks
Your last line is what they carry out the door. Make it count.
You nailed the hook.
You made a promise. You delivered on it.
And then you wrote: “Thanks for reading! If you found this helpful, please share with a friend.”
That’s not an ending. That’s a receipt.
Your reader just gave you five minutes of their life. They followed you through the argument, the examples, the moments that mattered. And now you’re handing them a business card on the way out?
The last line is the taste that lingers. It’s what they remember when they’ve forgotten everything else.
Most writers treat it like an afterthought.
It’s not.
What They Tell You
“Wrap it up. Summarize your main points. End with a call to action.”
This is business writing advice. It works for memos and product pages. It does not work for writing that matters.
A summary tells the reader what they already know. A call to action asks for something. Neither leaves a mark.
The best endings don’t summarize. They land.
They give you something to carry—a line that echoes, a question you can’t shake, an image that won’t leave.
John McPhee, who’s been writing for The New Yorker for sixty years, treats the lead and the conclusion as a dialogue. They talk to each other across the piece. The whole structure points toward the ending. (1)
That’s not wrapping up. That’s building a runway.
Where It Falls Apart
Here’s how most writers blow the ending:
They just... stop.
The argument ends. The examples run out. So they tack on a generic closer and hit publish.
“And that’s why writing matters.”
“So next time you sit down to write, remember this.”
“I hope this was helpful.”
These aren’t endings. They’re the sound of someone running out of things to say. There’s no weight. No resonance. The reader finishes and feels... nothing.
They summarize.
“In conclusion, we’ve covered three key points...”
You’re not writing a term paper. The reader was there. They don’t need you to remind them what they just read. Summaries are for people who skimmed. If your reader made it to the end, they earned something better than a recap.
They get preachy.
The piece was conversational, honest, human. Then the ending arrives and suddenly you’re on a soapbox delivering The Lesson.
“Remember: your voice matters. Your story matters. You matter.”
The reader feels the shift. The intimacy breaks. You were talking with them, now you’re talking at them. Same energy as vulnerability done wrong—performing emotion instead of sharing it.
How to Actually End
An ending that sticks does one of three things. Sometimes more than one.
1. Callback to the opening.
You opened with an image, a question, a scene. Return to it—but changed.
The reader recognizes where they started. They see how far they’ve come. The loop closes and something clicks.
Water for Elephants opens and ends with the same scene. But after 300 pages, you understand it differently. Same words. Different weight.
You can do this in 1,000 words. Open with a problem. End with the problem transformed. Same image, new meaning.
2. A question they can’t shake.
Not a rhetorical question. A real one.
Something that follows them out of the piece and into the shower, the drive home, the 2 AM ceiling stare.
“Isn’t it pretty to think so?” — Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises.
He’s not answering anything. He’s opening a wound and leaving. The reader has to sit with it.
Your question doesn’t need to be literary. It just needs to be honest. What’s the thing you’re actually asking…the thing you don’t have an answer to?
End there.
3. A line with weight.
Short. Concrete. Final.
Not clever. Not pretty. Just true …in a way that lands like a stone in still water.
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” — Fitzgerald.
“I am haunted by humans.” — Zusak.
“Tomorrow is another day.” — Mitchell.
These lines work because they carry the whole piece inside them. They’re not decorations. They’re distillations.
The last line should feel inevitable. Like the whole piece was pointing at it. Like you couldn’t have ended any other way.
Try This
Before you publish, read your last paragraph out loud. Then ask:
THE ENDING AUDIT
1. Does it land—or does it just stop?
2. Would I remember this line tomorrow?
3. Does it earn the time they gave me?
4. Am I summarizing? (Cut it.)
5. Am I preaching? (Cut it.)
6. Is there a better ending buried earlier in the piece?
If you’re stuck, look back upstream. Your best ending might already be written …it’s just in the wrong place.
Stuck? Use this prompt:
Here's my article. I'm struggling with the ending.
[PASTE YOUR DRAFT]
Help me find or write an ending that sticks. Give me 3 options:
1. A CALLBACK ending that returns to my opening with new meaning
2. A QUESTION ending that leaves them thinking
3. A WEIGHT ending—a short, concrete final line that distills the whole piece
For each option, show me the actual last 2-3 sentences I could use. Make them feel inevitable, not tacked on.
Also: is there a line buried in the middle of my piece that might work better as my ending?
The ending that feels inevitable is usually hiding somewhere you already wrote.
The Framework Complete
The hook gets them in.
The promise keeps them reading.
The delivery earns their trust.
But the ending?
The ending is what they take with them.
It’s the last thing they hear before they close the tab and go back to their lives.
Make it something worth carrying.
This completes the series: The Only Framework That Matters
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The hook earns the click. The promise earns the scroll. The delivery earns the trust. The ending earns the return.
(1) John McPhee, Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process (2017). McPhee describes how “the lead and the conclusion are always talking to each other as the story or essay proceeds.” His approach to structure means the ending isn’t an afterthought—it’s a destination the whole piece is built to reach.
Very good. I always learn something from your posts. Working to follow as much of it as I can!
Another good one. And don't hit post until you wrap it up with a big red bow. Sleep on it until it comes to you. Good ideas also come walking alone in the woods