April Dávila

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Writing a Strong Ending After Your Story’s Climax

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You’ve written the big moment. The emotional crescendo. The climactic scene where everything your protagonist has struggled with comes to a head. And then…

What?

If you’ve ever found yourself slogging through the final stretch of your draft, writing scenes that feel obligatory, repetitive, or just kind of limp, you may be experiencing post-climax drift.

It’s a common problem. After all, the climax gets all the attention. It’s the scene you’ve probably been writing toward for months. But what happens after the climax matters just as much, and many writers find themselves unsure how to land the emotional arc without losing momentum.

Here’s how to recognize post-climax drift and shape a stronger, more satisfying resolution.

What Does “Post-Climax Drift” Looks Like

Not sure if this is what you’re dealing with? Here are a few common signs:

  • Your scenes feel like filler, not movement
  • Your protagonist has already “won” or “lost,” and now you’re coasting
  • You’re explaining things that readers probably already understood
  • You keep adding quiet moments that aren’t building toward anything
  • You’ve rewritten the ending five times and it still feels flat

If any of this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. The good news? The problem usually isn’t that your ending is bad, it’s that the emotional arc hasn’t fully resolved yet.

Resolution vs. Afterthought

Many writers (especially newer ones) treat the climax as the finish line and the ending as a quick cooldown.

But readers need time to absorb the emotional consequences of the climax. That doesn’t mean dragging it out. In fact, just the opposite. Readers tend to lose interest after the climax, so you want to wrap things up quickly while still showing us what the climax changed.

Ask:

  • What’s different now for the protagonist – internally and externally?
  • What decision can they make now that they couldn’t have made before?
  • What lingering question or fear has been resolved or made irrelevant?

These moments don’t have to be big or dramatic. But they do need to feel earned.

Avoid the “One Last Scene” Trap

One sign of post-climax drift is the impulse to add “just one more” scene… again and again.

Often, this comes from fear: fear that the ending isn’t clear enough, emotional enough, or satisfying enough. So we keep padding. Another conversation. Another moment in the car. Another line of interior reflection.

Here’s the truth: you probably need fewer scenes than you think but they need to be focused.

Every post-climax scene should do at least one of the following:

  • Show character transformation in action
  • Tie up a plot or emotional thread
  • Reinforce the story’s central theme
  • Give the reader space to feel the resolution

If a scene doesn’t do one of those things? You may not need it.

One of the best hacks for this? Wrap up as much as you can before the climax of the story. By the time your hero slays the big bad dragon (literally or figuratively) all the subplots should be pretty much wrapped up. That way you have very little left to do when the reader’s attention starts to wane. 

Trust the Reader (and Yourself)

One reason endings drag is that writers try to do too much. Explain too much. Resolve too much. Reassure too much.

But often, a quiet, confident ending hits harder than one that spells everything out.

Trust that you’ve laid the groundwork. That your readers can make the final emotional leap. That ambiguity (when used well) isn’t confusing, it’s respectful.

The most powerful endings don’t close every door. They leave us looking back with understanding and forward with feeling.

If your final chapters feel messy or deflated, don’t panic. It doesn’t mean the story is broken. It means you’re deep in the shaping phase, the one that turns a draft into a book.

Trim the padding. Clarify the arc. Let your character show us who they’ve become.

Your ending matters. And yes, you can stick the landing.

If you could use some help, book a time to chat and we’ll see if we can figure it out together.

What If I’m Just Repeating Myself?

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It’s a question that comes up more than you might think, especially among writers working on a second or third book:

Am I just saying the same thing again?

Maybe it starts as a quiet unease while rereading an early draft. It sharpens mid-revision when a character starts to feel oddly familiar. And then comes the uncomfortable realization: the emotional core of this new story feels a lot like the last one.

It’s a common concern, and it’s worth taking seriously, not because repetition is always a problem, but because understanding it can help your stories keep evolving instead of looping around the same ideas.

Emotional Signatures

Just like painters have color palettes or composers have recurring motifs, writers have emotional signatures: themes, tensions, and questions they return to again and again.

Maybe you’re drawn to stories about mothers and daughters who can’t quite connect. Maybe you keep writing about quiet people finding their voice, or the tension between freedom and belonging, or what we owe the people who raised us.

These are not mistakes. They’re often the material you need to explore.

Instead of fighting that repetition, get curious. What are you circling? What still feels unresolved? What are you trying to understand more deeply this time?

Similar Is Not The Same

There’s a big difference between writing similar themes and writing the same story.

Yes, your characters may share emotional DNA. But context changes everything.

What stage of life is this character in? What is the external conflict this time? What new question are you asking? What choice does this version of the character have to make?

A novel about abandonment might look one way through the eyes of a child, and entirely differently through the eyes of a mother who had to leave. Same theme, different angle. And the angle is what makes the story new.

When Repetition Starts To Feel Stuck

Sometimes repetition is intentional. Other times, it’s a signal that something in the work has not fully landed yet.

If you find yourself rewriting the same dynamic over and over without new movement or insight, it may be worth asking:

  • Am I writing toward a question I’m still afraid to fully answer?
  • Is there an emotional risk I’ve been avoiding on the page?
  • Am I staying with what feels familiar because it feels safe?

That kind of repetition is not failure. It’s information.

It means your voice is ready to deepen, but the story has not yet made room for that deeper truth. The pattern may be showing you where you’re being asked to stretch.

Let Your Readers See You Evolve

One fear behind the question of repetition is that readers, agents, or critique partners will notice and think you only have one story in you.

But readers often love tracing a writer’s themes across different books. It creates resonance. It gives a body of work continuity and depth.

The key is not to hide your patterns. It’s to expand them.

Try shifting the point of view. Change the life stage. Reverse the emotional position. If the wounded person needed rescue in one book, maybe in this one they are the rescuer. If one project explored longing for belonging, maybe the next explores what belonging costs.

The furniture may feel familiar. The room can still be new.

Your Voice Is Evolving

We may think we’re writing the same thing again, until we read the work years later and realize the voice, depth, and clarity have changed completely.

Even when your stories circle the same emotional ground, you are not the same writer. And that matters.

So trust the process. Repetition is not always a sign that you’re stuck. It may simply mean you are still in conversation with something that matters deeply to you.

If you find yourself circling this question mid-draft, you don’t have to figure it out alone. Sometimes all it takes is a fresh pair of eyes and a good conversation to tell the difference between repetition and resonance.

That’s exactly the kind of work we do together in my coaching programs, sorting out what the story is really trying to do, and helping you reconnect with why you wanted to write it in the first place.

Your stories are worth revisiting, especially when each return takes you somewhere deeper.

Book a call with me and let’s talk about your project.

Not Every Writing Day Looks Like Writing

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Not every good writing day ends with a high word count. Some days, progress looks quieter than that.

A lot of writers are very quick to dismiss the work that happens around the writing.

If they didn’t draft a chapter, hit a word-count goal, or spend a few visibly disciplined hours at the keyboard, they assume it doesn’t count. The day gets labeled unproductive. The guilt sets in. And suddenly all the quieter, less measurable parts of the creative process get treated like fluff.

I understand the impulse. Writing is so intangible already. Of course we want proof that we are doing it.

But I think this narrow definition of progress gets a lot of writers into trouble.

Because some of the most important work of writing does not look like writing at all.

The Work That Happens Off The Page

Part of the problem is that we’ve been trained to value what can be measured. Pages written. Words logged. Drafts completed. Those things are real and they matter. But they are not the whole story.

Writing also involves thinking, noticing, circling, remembering, and staying in relationship with the work long enough for it to reveal itself. And yet many writers dismiss the walk that helped them solve a plot problem, the journal entry that uncovered the emotional truth of a scene, the hour spent making sense of a timeline. Those things often matter precisely because they happen off the page.

Some writing days are drafting days. Some are thinking days. And thinking days are not lesser.

Taking a walk can calm the nervous system and loosen whatever idea was clenched in the mind. A scene opens up. A character starts talking. The knot you couldn’t untangle at your desk suddenly looks much simpler in motion. 

Journaling gives you a place to think sloppily and honestly, to ask questions, to admit what isn’t working. 

And lists, simple as they are, can hold the shape of a story before the story is ready to stand on its own. A list of possible scenes, of what your character wants, of images or questions or things you still need to figure out.

Trust the work that doesn’t look like work. It’s often doing the most.

Procrastination Vs.Preparation

Now, to be fair, not all writing-adjacent work is useful.

Sometimes organizing is just organizing. Sometimes the color-coded Scrivener Binder is a way of avoiding the vulnerable part where you actually have to write the scene. 

And that’s okay. We’ve all done it.

But not all organizing is procrastination. Sometimes it is preparation.

Sometimes what looks like avoidance is actually a writer trying to make the work visible enough to continue. A timeline helps because the plot is getting slippery. A story bible helps because the details are multiplying. A neat list of chapter summaries helps because the draft has become too big to hold in your head.

The question is not whether the task looks writerly enough. The question is whether it is helping you re-enter the work with more clarity.

If it is, then it’s serving a purpose.

Let The Subconscious Help

Writing asks a lot from the conscious mind, but not everything good comes from our logical brain.

Sometimes the story needs you to back off a little.

Your job is to stay near it. To keep asking questions. To read over the pages and then go wash the dishes or take a walk, and let the subconscious keep turning the material over without demanding immediate results.

This is not always comfortable, especially if you are someone who likes visible progress. But I think many writers have had the experience of struggling with a problem, stepping away, and returning with the answer somehow already there.

That is not magic. That is part of the process too.

A Better Definition Of Progress

Many writers would feel less shame and more steadiness if they are allowed for a broader definition of progress.

A good writing day might be 1,500 words. It might also be a long walk that solved the middle of the book, or an hour spent mapping scenes so tomorrow’s writing goes better, or a quiet day of staying in conversation with the work instead of abandoning it.

That counts.

Not because we are lowering the bar, but because writing is bigger than its most visible output.

Sometimes progress is loud. Sometimes it is almost invisible. Both are real.

And if what you did today helped you remain in relationship with the story, I would be very careful before calling that nothing. The stories we tell ourselves about our work matter so consider reframing it as a quietly productive day, just as important as any other. 

Writing the Scene That Scares You

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Every writer I know has one: a scene that sits quietly in the corner of the draft, waiting. The one you keep skipping. The one you keep meaning to come back to later.

Sometimes it’s a memory. Sometimes it’s a conversation your character doesn’t want to have. Sometimes it’s a plot point that hits too close to home.

Whatever the reason, writing the scene that scares you is often the key to unlocking your story’s deepest truth. And it doesn’t have to break you.

The scenes writers avoid are often the ones carrying the most emotional weight. With compassion, care, and a few smart strategies, you can write what needs to be written and come out stronger on the other side.

What Are You Avoiding And Why?

If you’ve been putting off a pivotal scene for days, you’re not alone. It’s personal. It’s emotional. And the fear of not doing it justice can make it easier to skip it and come back later.

When I was working on my second novel, I had decided (in the outline) to give one of my characters a difficult pregnancy. My own second pregnancy had been hard for a lot of reasons and so I figured I could write the hell out that material, but when it came time to actually put the words on the page I discovered new levels of avoidance. I cleaned the pantry, I organized the junk drawer, and I replaced my windshield wiper blades. 

I just didn’t want to write those scenes. I didn’t want to revisit that time in my life. The avoidance was understandable, but I knew I had to get past it. 

Here’s the hard truth: the scene you’re avoiding is usually the one that matters most.

That can be true in fiction or memoir, though the experience may feel different. In fiction, the fear may come from how close the material lands emotionally. In memoir, it may come from writing directly toward something you have lived. 

Either way, the resistance usually means there is something important there.

Write It Badly First

Here’s your permission slip: you do not have to write the scene beautifully the first time.

In fact, it usually helps if you don’t try.

I’ve seen it happen again and again: a writer gives themselves permission to write the ugly version of the scene, lets it be raw, lets it be honest, and suddenly the page that felt impossible is just a page. Once it exists, you can work with it.

That’s often the real work at first. Not elegance. Not polish. Just getting it down.

If even that feels too hard, try writing the scene as a list of beats:

  • this is what happens
  • this is what is said
  • this is the moment everything changes

Or you can try using sensory anchors to ease in. What does the room in your story look like? What sound does the character hear? What physical detail keeps the scene grounded? Sometimes focusing on the concrete is what finally lets us access what feels overwhelming.

A rough version still counts. A fragmented version still counts. You are not failing if the first pass is messy. You are making it possible to revise.

For me, the trick was to set a 10-minute timer and work on it for just that ten minutes, then I would go play with my boy and remind myself that we got through it okay. Everyone survived. 

The Reward On The Other Side

Once you’ve written the scene that scares you, something often shifts.

You find new clarity, not just about that moment, but about the whole book. Characters feel more alive. The stakes feel more real. The writing gets closer to what it was trying to become.

Most importantly, you feel more connected to the story.

That is not just good writing. That is courage.

Begin Gently, But Begin

If you’re avoiding a scene, ask yourself what is really holding you back. Then find a gentle way toward it.

Write a messy version. Write a letter to yourself. Write a list of what happens. Start with the physical details if the emotion feels too large. Do whatever helps you enter the scene without demanding perfection from yourself.

Because writing the scene that scares you is not just another step in the process. It is often the step that makes the story come fully alive.

And once it’s on the page, it usually stops feeling quite so impossible.

If you’re trying to write the hard parts without shutting down, that’s one of the reasons I wrote Sit Write Here: 6 Mindfulness Practices to Help You Write More and Suffer Less. It’s for writers who want to stay close to the truth of the work with more steadiness, compassion, and courage. The book comes out July 7, 2026 – preorder your copy now.

How Much Backstory Is Too Much? A Writer’s Guide

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One of the most common challenges writers face (especially in early drafts) is figuring out how much backstory is too much.

The impulse to explain our characters and their histories is strong. We want readers to understand where they come from, why they act the way they do, and what they carry with them. But when too much of that information arrives too early, it can slow the story’s momentum, confuse the reader, and distract from the emotional arc that is unfolding in the present.

This is one of the craft questions that comes up all the time in my classes and coaching conversations.

So how do we find the right balance?

Backstory Belongs In Draft One, But Not All In Chapter One

It’s easy for an opening scene to become crowded with names, history, and worldbuilding (much of it interesting, but difficult to track). The result is that readers are left wondering who matters and what they are supposed to remember.

It’s completely natural to pour everything you know about your story onto the page in a first draft. In fact, it’s often necessary. Writing backstory helps us understand what the story is really about. But just because it’s helpful for the writer doesn’t mean it all belongs in the final draft or in the opening pages.

How To Know If You’ve Added Too Much Backstory

A few signs you may have gone too far:

  • The reader is confused about who matters
  • Not much is happening in the present scene
  • The writing starts summarizing instead of unfolding
  • The story keeps pausing to explain itself

Readers do not need your character’s whole past at once. They need the parts of it that affect how the present moment lands.

Backstory Works Best When It’s Earned

Here’s the truth of it: a character’s past becomes more meaningful once readers already care about them. Let the story raise questions before you answer them. If the reader has not yet wondered, “Why is she like this?” they may not be ready for the explanation.

Let curiosity build.

Drop a hint about the scar. Show the moment of hesitation. Let a reaction feel just a little off. These small cues create tension and spark interest, which gives the eventual backstory more emotional payoff.

How To Weave In The Past Without Losing The Present

When you’re ready to layer in backstory, here are a few gentle ways to do it.

Use dialogue.
Let characters reveal history naturally, often indirectly. A line like, “Don’t start that again, you sound like your father,” can do a lot of work.

Let setting or objects trigger memory.
An old photograph or a childhood bedroom can open the door to the past but usually a brief, grounded moment works better than a long detour.

Anchor memory in the moment.
If you do move into a longer memory or flashback, return the reader smoothly to the present. A physical action or sensory detail can help bridge that shift.

Cut ruthlessly.
If you’re not sure a piece of backstory belongs, try removing it. If the scene still works, that information may be better saved for later or left out entirely.

It’s worth saying again: first drafts are for discovery.

If you’ve written long paragraphs or whole chapters of backstory, don’t panic. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re figuring out the story.

Later drafts are where the pruning happens. Once you know what your story is really about, you’ll be better able to tell which parts of the past illuminate the present and which parts belong in your notes instead.

Let Backstory Earn Its Place

If you’re stuck wondering how much backstory is too much, remember this: readers care most about what’s happening now.

Start with action. Let the past trickle in as the present unfolds. You do not have to explain everything. In fact, a little mystery goes a long way.

And when in doubt, write it all, then trust yourself to revise, or hire a professional to give you their thoughts. The goal is not to erase the past. It’s to reveal the details that matter when they matter most.