There’s really only one thing we can talk about today: CLIMAXES.
The climax of your novel is, bizarrely enough, the premise. It’s the point of the entire story.
Suppose you’re a writer working intensely on an incredibly deep and meaningful story. You’re an eighteenth-century American who’s been in Europe and are on your way home, so you have to do this work on shipboard. But that’s okay because you’re so completely immersed in it that you could work on it anywhere. Or else you’re a European who’s been in America. But, anyway, you’re on a ship, working, working, working away as towering waves crash over the prow and the tang of salt wafts to your nostrils.
Now, news of this extraordinary story has leaked out into the general public. Since you have a huge international reputation as a storyteller, everyone knows this story is worth a fortune. It’s rumored to be the pinnacle of your career. It’s the most amazing production of a brain that’s already produced stories greater than Homer’s, plot twists more baffling than Cervantes’, audience investment more powerful than Shakespeare’s. Anyone who possesses it will be richer than Croesus. But of course you keep it top secret so no one can steal it from you. It is—as Bertie Wooster would say—a real pip.
But disaster strikes. Oh, no! Your ship is hailed and, in quick order, boarded by pirates. They kill everybody on board and take command. You are hauled up in chains before the pirate captain, the notorious Assuipe, with his reputation for collecting strange and unusual treasures and selling them to buyers of enormous wealth known only to him. This guy could sell snow to Eskimos. He’s that good.
And he wants your story.
“No!” you cry. “I won’t tell you! I’d rather DIE FIRST.”
He’s okay with that. In an instant, his minions have flung out a plank, and you are encouraged at sword point to climb up on it and begin your promenade. They’re leaning over the side of the ship tossing edibles into the depths to attract sharks. This guy’s mean.
“Well?” he calls when you’re a third of the way down the plank.
“I won’t!” you yell furiously over your shoulder. You rattle your chains above your head at him.
Poke, poke go the points of the swords.
“What do you think?” he calls when you’re two thirds of the way down the plank.
“Never!” you bellow, yanking futilely against your chains. One foot slips, and you jerk it back with a private whimper.
Poke, poke go the points of the swords.
“It’s time, matey. Will you tell me or won’t you?” he calls when you get to the end of the plank.
The pirates lift, and the plank begins to tip. Below your feet, shark fins are circling. The tang of salt wafts to your nostrils. You shriek.
“It’s—!”
What?
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