Clinchers are lines at the end of your conclusion that somehow circle back to a critical idea, phrase, or use of language from earlier in the essay. If it works, there's a sort of "click" feeling for the reader, who senses that the essay "snaps together" in a satisfying way. Check out these two examples from Mr. Slater...
EXAMPLE 1
Sometimes I Forget You’re a Robot is a deceptively simple story about a boy who dreams of having a robot land in his backyard. But when a giant red robot actually does appear, he is disappointed by its inability to whisk him up to the moon or down to a deep-sea hideout. The boy grouches to the apparently useless robot, “You probably can’t even help me finish my tree house.”
The robot can. It picks the boy up so he can work in the treetop, though the boy only complains it probably can’t do much more than that. After it holds heavy beams for the boy to install, he complains that it probably can’t do much more than that. And so on as the robot helps the boy hammer nails and paint boards.
Before he knows it, and to the boy’s great delight, a dream fort has risen from the tree. The view to further adventure is clear. Boy and robot, now best buddies, do not fly into their future—the robot cannot fly. This is okay, though, because the boy now accepts the robot’s limitations. They can walk, even if it takes forever. It’s the start of a beautiful friendship.
Thoughtful stuff lies under the surface of Sometimes I Forget You’re a Robot, which turns out to be a condensed and efficient coming-of-age story. The boy’s first wish is quintessentially childish: Someone (else) make my dreams come true. But he moves toward maturity when he discovers that he must work to make his dreams come true—and that help comes to those who help themselves.
But the fact that one could write an essay explicating the skillfully layered metaphorical content of a story does not mean it has succeeded. It has to be pleasing whether or not the reader perceives any of its deeper meanings. The challenge for the ambitious picture book author is to give the surface story as much appeal as its symbolic content. The surface story of Sometimes I Forget You’re a Robot is so simple as to be almost non-existent. It can be summarized thusly: “A robot helps a boy build a tree fort.”
Granted, more has been done with less (see My Friend Rabbit or The Dot), but such magic requires a truly deft storytelling touch, indelible characters, and/or inspired illustrations. Mr. Brown’s bright and lively pictures (done with a stylus on a tablet) are attractive—and there’s something appropriate to the spirit of the story that the pictures look as if a child could create them—but in the end, the artwork cannot lift the story beyond the limitations of its bare bones and mostly un-dramatic plot.
Younger children will no doubt readily relate to the boy’s dreams, and for that reason enjoy Sometimes I Forget You’re a Robot. The book will hold their attention for a read or two—but it probably can’t do much more than that.
EXAMPLE 2
The Day the Crayons Quit has a number of things going for it, but truth in advertising isn’t one of them. The book is not actually about a day crayons quit, nor even a day they staged a picket line with droll protest signs (“Down with this sort of thing”), as depicted on the eye-catching front/back cover. The book is actually about the day a boy named Duncan finds a stack of letters with his name on them, letters that turn out to contain a litany of complaints from the disgruntled crayons in his box. Granted, The Day the Crayons Complained is a far less compelling title, but this marketing slight-of-hand feels disingenuous because it implies an intriguing level of conflict that simply isn’t delivered. The back cover text reads, “The Battle Lines are Drawn,” which cleverly, but just as misleadingly, promises real fireworks.
Salesmanship aside, the crayon’s complaints are often, if not droll, amusing. Red is exhausted. “I have to color ALL the Santas at Christmas and ALL the hearts on Valentines day!” he rants. Purple, perhaps a bit OCD, threatens to “completely lose it” if forced to continue coloring outside the lines. White is depressed about only being used for, well, white space, and orange and yellow are in a spat about which is the rightful color of the sun. Perhaps the funniest is Peach, who is embarrassed about having been left naked when Duncan inexplicably peeled off his wrapper (“I don’t even wear underwear!”).
Each letter is accompanied by pleasing, kid-authentic crayon drawings by Oliver Jeffers, the award-winning author/illustrator of many books, including The Incredible Book Eating Boy. The bright, monochromatic drawings jump off mostly white backgrounds. It’s an accomplishment to have created perfectly believable childish drawings, but the perhaps inevitable result is that Duncan’s artwork, like most children’s, is cute but not particularly memorable.
The real problem with the book is that the letters begin to feel tedious. This happens for two reasons. First, there is no escalating sense of tension (or hilarity). The letters could be in any order with no real change to their overall effect. More significantly, the complaints begin to overlap. Both Pink and White regret their lack of use, and Red, Gray, and Blue all complain, essentially, about overuse (though, oddly, only Blue seems to be physically affected—he’s stubby now). After a half dozen letters, one wonders where it is all going, yet another half dozen follow with mostly diminishing returns.
Finally, the ending is a bit unsatisfying. Duncan, we’re told, “just wanted to color…and of course he wanted his crayons to be happy.” We’re then presented with his solution, a lovely two-page beach scene that creatively uses every crayon to cheerful effect. The picture reflects Duncan’s attempts to appease his crayons. For example, he acceded to Black’s request for a black beach ball and rainbow, as well as Beige’s and White’s requests to color new things. But the thoughtful reader will note that neither Blue, Red, nor Gray got the rest they requested.
With this less than neat conclusion, the book comes full circle. The creators of The Day the Crayons Quit seem to be hoping readers won’t mind that they’ve colored a bit outside the lines. Those that like a little messiness will no doubt enjoy the book. But to the purples out there, be warned: you may completely (or maybe just partially) lose it.