What’s in a word?
Well, in a word, everything.
In his terrific guide, On
Writing, Stephen King shares this anecdote about James Joyce:
“A friend came to visit James Joyce one
day and found the great man sprawled across his writing desk in a posture of
utter despair.
James, what’s wrong?' the friend asked. 'Is it the work?'
Joyce indicated assent without even raising his head to look at his friend. Of
course it was the work; isn’t it always?
How many words did you get today?' the friend pursued.
Joyce (still in despair, still sprawled facedown on his desk): 'Seven.'
Seven? But James… that’s good, at least for you.'
Yes,' Joyce said, finally looking up. 'I suppose it is… but I don’t know what
order they go in!”
Every word counts, of course, but I’m always struck that
an author can toil over 100,000 words throughout the journey of a manuscript,
but the fate of the thing might well rest upon the precise assemblage of a few
select components, such as the first sentence, or the last, or the climax.
As for this latter piece, I struggled with mine in no
small measure for my YA/Fantasy novel, The
Awakening of David Rose, to be released in December by the great folks at Evolved Publishing.
I needed it to pop, be compelling, but more than that, TO WORK. To fit, to
resonate, to ring true, and to set the path for all to come, not only in the denouement,
but the reminder of the series.
A friend recommended some books where similar “awakening”
climaxes occurred, and the best of the lot was from the amazing Laini Taylor,
and her surpassing novel , Daughter
of Smoke and Bone. Her climactic scene
(and the book entire) worked marvelously, and while I don’t know if I nailed it
or not, I feel my climax works for my character, and my tale.
And
now, he knew. Instinct had roused first, muscle memory springing to life in the
nick of time and resurrecting a swordsmanship centuries dormant. But now the
fog was lifting, memories shaking off their slumber. They burst the dam of what
had been his unawakened soul, and he clenched his eyes shut and steadied
himself as they flooded over and through him, time unraveling inside him like a
waterfall in reverse. Quick, blurring visions that did not stop but roared
past, defying resolution, until at last they slowed and images dropped into the
picture as though from a thousand different skies, contorting, twisting and
then interlocking with other pieces until the puzzle was complete.
It is tempting, with scenes like this, to focus on writing
a cool, riveting scene, and while I hope I’ve done so, what matters most is
getting it right, placing the reader right there with David, in his head, and
in his heart, feeling and endeavoring to reconcile these things right along
with him. And just as important as conveying what happened, is laying that
groundwork, for what happens next.
The
upward waterfall ceased, memories pooling in his mind like swirling eddies of
understanding. Marcel had spoken of it as a gift but also as the greatest of
burdens. No wonder; beneath the brimming exhilaration—the thrill of knowing he
held at his fingertips scintillating powers of untold lifetimes—was the growing
realization that along with the power came the pain. People dreamed of
immortality, spoke of it wistfully, but what they could not know was that
immortality at its core embodied the greatest frailties of the mortal world.
I appreciate so deeply the amazing scribes who craft climatic
scenes with such inspiring prowess. I am excited about my December release, and
will keep you posted.
So, what do you think? What is your favorite aspect of
a good climactic scene? What are the most challenging—and invigorating—aspects of
writing them?
Thank you, as ever, for your community, and support.
