Half a Page in Oslo: Why Every Book Gets a Second Goodbye

Rule number one of writing epilogues (or prologues): don't listen to popular advice about writing epilogues (or prologues). The only writing advice I feel I'm qualified to give is this: it's your story. Write it the way you want it without worrying about how Goodreads users will tear it apart just for funsies.

I recently took a stab at writing the epilogue for Book 9, which has now been through a full rewrite. I say stab because what ends up in the published version may differ wildly from what I put down the other day. You see, I don't use epilogues the way most authors use them when they're writing standalone books. My books do stand alone, but they also tie into the larger Vinestead Universe.

That means when I go to write an epilogue, I'm not just tying a knot on a single book—I'm answering to every book I've ever written. (Note: This AI-sounding It's not X, it's Y sentence was absolutely written by a human and he's not changing it.)

No pressure, right?

A Brief History of Tying Up Loose Ends

For those who don't look up the origin of every word they see on the internet, epilogue comes from the Greek epilogos, which the nerds in etymology think meant the concluding word. Aristotle was a big fan, and he used it for the closing section of his passionate, sweaty speeches. Elizabethan-era theater kids picked it up after that, having actors step forward after the play to speak directly to the crowd. Puck apologizes at the end of A Midsummer Night's Dream in case the audience didn't like the play (which, as a writer, makes me feel closer to Shakespeare than anything else). Even in The Tempest, Prospero asks the audience to release him with their applause. Their stories were over, but someone still had to tell people to GTFO.

You probably know epilogues better from novels. War and Peace ends with a two-part epilogue set years after the main action. She Who Shall Not Be Named jumped Harry Potter nineteen years into the future to a train platform. My favorite book, Replay, picked up mere minutes (probably) after the main story, and it still haunts my dreams.

Those three authors were all trying to accomplish the same thing: the plot is finished, and now you get to see what it cost, what it changed, and who's still standing.

Writers use epilogues to show consequences, jump forward in time, or to let the reader breathe after a climactic ending. Some use them to wink at the audience with their good eye. Others use epilogues to set up a sequel, and people drag them for it in reviews sometimes, especially if the sequel is several years off.

I've never used them for that last one, and I'll get to why in a minute here.

"This time, he would do it right."

I know exactly when epilogues started to matter to me. It was at the end of my favorite book, Replay by Ken Grimwood. After surviving the whirlwind of Jeff Winston's many lives, and the manner in which his replays finally ended, I was ready to close the book and take a breath. I was only ten at the time, so maybe I went outside to play in the dirt for a bit, maybe found a horny toad to trap in a jar.

And then came the epilogue. It took up barely half of the page. And yet, reading through it absolutely broke me. I had just invested everything into Jeff Winston, and now here was Peter Skjoren, half a world away in Oslo, starting down a new path. I couldn't go through it again. I just couldn't.

As it turned out, I didn't have to. Ken Grimwood died before ever completing a sequel to Replay, and the story of Peter Skjoren remains untold.

Over the years, I've come to respect that epilogue more and more. It grew the story beyond Jeff and Pamela. It suggested a larger system I hadn't considered. And it pointed outward instead of just providing a second denouement.

I've been trying to pull that trick off ever since.

Eight Books. One Universe. Zero Sequels.

If you've read any reviews of my books (because that's something you do, right?), you've probably seen some version of, "The ending seems to be setting up a sequel."

I totally get why people say that. My epilogues often introduce new characters, reopen old wounds, and sometimes end on a frustrating cliffhanger that mirrors Grimwood's in Replay. The last line in House of Nepenthe is literally "Maybe this was just the beginning." I'm aware of what that's giving, as they say.

But I have never planned a sequel to my books. Not once.

The Vinestead Anthology is a shared universe, so every book stands on its own, with its own cast and its own ending. What ties them together is the world: the same corporations, the same tech, and that same slow slide towards a future where machines and people can't agree who counts as a person. My epilogues are where each book turns around and looks at the larger world. They're less to be continued and more meanwhile, at the Hall of Justice.

Sometimes that "meanwhile" pays off in the next book, but since I jump around the timeline so much, it could be more than a decade before you see how Xronixle connects to Brigham Plaza. Sometimes, the epilogue is just a glimpse of something happening in the background that I haven't come back to... yet.

It's All Connected, Man

Unless you're me or my editor, you probably haven't read every book in the Vinestead Anthology, so here's a quick recap of how each book's epilogue connects to the larger universe.

Xronixle → Jape builds a monument around X's homedir in VNet, while inside, X scrapes a the virus-laden walls, trying to get out. That monument becomes a revisited landmark in Brigham Plaza.

Veneer → Two characters review what Deron did in Easton and realize the trouble he caused is spreading. They pack their bags and head off to deal with it in the sequel, but the sequel never came. And since the book sits at the very end of the Vinestead timeline, it's unlikely we'll see those characters again.

Perion Synthetics → Some madman decided that if there were going to be six POV characters in the story, each one should get their own epilogue (called "codas" in the book). The main characters were scattered to Astoria, Umbra, the MX, and even Vietnam. Cyn's story picks back up in Brigham Plaza, while Gil provides the catalyst for the MX's entire Máquina army, which features in Por Vida.

Por Vida → The epilogue here takes one of the main characters through Folsom Prison's ReTread program. We go to Folsom in Brigham Plaza, and the Jake Six program becomes a major part of Hybrid Mechanics.

Hybrid Mechanics → No formal epilogue, but the final page looks at what's in store for our surviving characters. The rejection of synthetic humans bridges the gap between the meat of the Vinestead universe and a future in Veneer where synthetics are all but extinct.

Brigham Plaza → Jane opens this book in the prologue (gasp!) and closes it out too. In the epilogue, she's on to her next assignment, and we meet Carter Price, who becomes one of the main characters in Vise Manor.

Vise Manor → A man who's been running from Vinestead for years hears a knock at the door during a thunderstorm. An old friend has finally come back to the real world, wearing a body he didn't expect. This storyline hasn't paid off yet.

House of Nepenthe → A graveside epilogue featuring a benefactor with ulterior motives and a mystery be-hatted figure standing just beyond the cemetery fence. The characters look towards the future from 1997—a future that contains every other book in the Vinestead Anthology.

Ending Book 9

Which brings me back to the blinking cursor at the end of book 9. The story sits squarely in the middle of the timeline, so I know what's come before and what comes next, and without spoiling anything, I'll say it connects back to previous books in a satisfying way.

At least, I hope it does. I want you to see how everything connects, partly because it'll hopefully motivate you to read alllll of my books, but also because it increases the enjoyment of any given story. The Vinestead Universe is a lot to keep in your head, but I'll do my best to remind you along the way.

And really, that's what my epilogues are meant to do. I'm not setting up sequels. Sometimes I give a character a little "this is how they ended up" treatment. But mostly I'm tying the book in your hands back into the books on your shelf. Epilogues can reframe how you see past events. They can give you hints on what to expect in the future.

More than anything, I hope they leave you frustrated that there aren't more books to read, because then you'll know how I felt in 1990 reading Replay for the first time.

May that anger and frustration fuel your readings of my books and color the words of your reviews.