Some stories start out softly. With languid strides they circle around, sharing whispers for your attention. They build slowly, a steady marathon your brain tries to sprint.
Others explode. Out the box instantly: racing, raving lunatics clashing swords with spears, drunk on fear or lust, adrenaline courses through veins as scenes flash, flickering before our eyes.
You want the best stories, and I know the formula.
It’s the Grand Unified Theory of literature and I give it freely away. Whatever the character, give them purpose and flaw; sharpen the tool, cut the readers and addict them to the pain. Step 1.
The rest is plot and setting, dialogue and metaphor. They’re blocks which build faster now as we approach the last. Time for your ending.
Center stage, a resounding crescendo of anticipation, of ifs and buts and how’s. A final smirk or tear, the last reveal seals the deal and pays for all: the secret to your ending, my friends, is