Climax

The climax of a tragedy is the most precious gem in literature. It must be hard and brilliant and shine like a diamond, teleological product of all the heat and pressure that built from Page One. Whatever the story has been reaching for, this is it, every mystery solved, every hero, every villain stage center in mentally sharp light, nothing hidden.

In previous work, that was never necessary. I wrote stories in which the climax was heavily foreshadowed and fairly simple in execution, a dab of surprise and tense excitement as it played out, took life and saved life, and satisfied the needs of a romantic comedy. Perhaps that's a funny way to talk about Chris and Peachy, but let's face it, love stories end well.

'Partners' is something entirely different, a tragedy at its core, cannot end well for Kyle and Jim, two men on the wrong side of the law on purpose, at war with the mob, outnumbered and betrayed by a man they trusted, marked for death from Page One, although neither of them perceived it at the time. 65,000 words later, their fate is sealed and they know it.

The climax, I should mention, is not the end of the story. It is a mountaintop of revelation, face to face with death. One will live and one will die. Many others will live and die, a final judgment upon men and their folly. The climax is an action sequence, yet something far more significant than life and death, physical bookends that no man can escape. A literary climax is and ought to be spiritual discovery, all masks dissolved, all ignorance cornered and killed.

I don't care if it takes a month to write it.

One more remark about this particular project, a parable that has just occurred, after I wrote the previous sentence, saved it, and went outdoors to find the dog. He has predictable ways and means of making travel difficult on the county road, early morning to warm himself dead center in the middle of the gravel, impeding traffic, and late afternoon in a shady spot on the top of a hill, hopefully near the berm. I went up to congratulate him for staying out of traffic, and then I turned and assessed with satisfaction how nice the property looked, after I spent several days weed whacking several acres. There was a group of giant oak logs that need to be sawn by a professional logger. I had hauled off everything smaller. These were pieces of a massive trunk. One of them seemed small enough to wheelbarrow, so I prepared to do that. The damn thing was 150 lbs, at or beyond the limit of what I could lift, and the wheelbarrow squirted away when I attempted to load it, heavy round crashing down, scraping my forearm and a knee. It was impossible. I heaved the giant thing on a berm and took the wheelbarrow back to the barn, shaking my head in amusement, then struck by a sober epiphany.

There is a distinct possibility that my tour de force will fail, if I lack the power to do the heavy lifting of an astounding and unexpected climax.