Ok, you pick a book and the first line you read is:
We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody threw the girl off the bridge.
I’m not a betting man, but I’m gonna wager that you’re going to keep reading.
Or how about this one:
When the phone rang, Parker was in the garage killing a man.
Again… the easy money says you’re going to read at least a page or two.
For the last couple of weeks I judged a short fiction contest (I can’t say which one as the submissions are still being judged). I’ve judged a few of these now, and at one point I was a reader for the literary magazine, Carve. If I have the time, I’m always glad to do this, as I can learn a lot about my work by analyzing other writers. Common themes and tropes often bubble up. Number one theme in stories: death. Number one cause of death: Cancer. Now, these were all literary contests, so it’s good to note if I was reading crime fiction stories the theme would probably be the same, but the cause would be something that had a caliber attached to it.
This time around what I noticed the most was the slow, slow, very slow beginnings to stories. Maybe you have a bit more room in Henry James’ large loose baggy monster (the novel) than in short fiction where there is so much compression. Though, the two first lines above are fine examples of novels that start like they just lifted that cage thing at the horse races… and they’re off! (Bonus points if you know what that cage thing is called.) But in reading these recent submissions, so many times I’d be two, three, or in one case, six pages in, and I’d go: oh, now the story starts.
I recall a craft book referring to these slow openings as: warming up your engines.
You know, like it’s 40 below and you got a heater in your truck… (obscure Canadian song reference), and you need to let that baby idle for a while before you put it into gear and drive to the liquor store. I’m resisting the tangent that says you’re not supposed to really do that to your car engine—but here’s the thing, you’re not supposed to do it to your story either!
Stories need way less set up than you think. Yes, it’s important to weave backstory in, to create characters and scenes that have some depth, and to make a story more authentic. But if you don’t give me something fresh, intriguing, or dammit just make me interested in that first line, I can bet I’m not going to be interested in the rest. Now, this wasn’t always the case. There were stories that had a line that made the story take off like a rocket, but it was buried at the bottom of page three in a seven page story. These stories just didn’t cut it—no matter how good that line was. You wasted my time for those first few pages, and I’m a busy guy. So when I got to the good line, I still felt kind of pissy for what you made me wade through to get there.
So how do you do it? Here’s some things I used to think… but now I don’t.
Media res
Yes, all you latin buffs, start right in the middle of the story and make me figure it out. I also see this a lot, notably when you throw me into the middle of a conversation where I have no context. In the hands of a master (let’s call them, George Saunders), this can work. But it’s more than just coming into the middle of something that creates intrigue—in fact, it can create annoyance. Saunders use of language is so fresh and inventive that I’m driven to find out what’s happening. But similar to my post about being kind to the reader, on how obfuscation is just a gimmicky attempt to create interest (or faux-literary), throwing someone in the middle of a convo or situation is anything but intriguing… and it isn’t very nice either.
Ticking time bombs and car crashes
I started a story once where someone had to choose between cutting the yellow wire or the red wire or the whole damn thing would explode. Similar to starting with a car crash, I know nothing of the characters, or the context, or really anything that would make me care if the bomb went off or the Ford went over the cliff. Drama can be placed too high at the beginning of a story, and simply can’t maintain it. If you keep repeating those explosions and car crashes, whether literal or metaphorical (like a huge relationship conflict), what you end up with is melodrama. And who wants that"? (not me).
Ok, so dammit Craig, what do we do, and why is writing so damn hard?
Now, we’re getting somewhere. Have another read of those two openers. There is a thought, and it’s a good one, that whatever the first sentence says, well that’s what the whole story is about.
We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody threw the girl off the bridge.
Questions appear in my mind when I analyze this sentence. Who is the “we”, what were they in the middle of doing that they had to call it a night, and of course, the whole thing about the girl thrown off the bridge. You could argue that this is a car crash type moment—but for me, it’s much more than that, and less. There’s a mood here… helped along that it’s night, and they’re next to some sort of bridge. You’ve got characters, lighting, setting, and conflict/surprise, all in a killer first line. (No surprise this is from the great John D. MacDonald, Travis McGee novel, Darker than Amber.)
This one is more sparse. (Also no surprise, as it’s from Donald Westlake, writing as Richard Stark in the Parker novel Firebreak.) Note there is a similarity between the two: the structure of while this was happening, this other thing was happening. In both cases, the other thing was a surprise: girl off bridge, killing a man in the garage. In Stark’s sentence there are twelve words. Within those words, you have a two senses (sound and vision), setting, and even the nature of character. What do we know about Parker when we read this? Not much, but the way the sentence flows it gives us the idea that Parker has done this before, and is kind of nonchalant about it. It’s almost like saying, “When the phone rang, Parker was making a sandwich.”
Both of these example are from crime fiction, but this can applied to all kinds of writing. The question to ask yourself—and this so often only happens in revision—is does this first line ask a strong enough question to make the reader want to read at least the next sentence? (George Saunders talks about this brilliantly in his recent book, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain.)
He speaks in your voice, American, and there’s a shine in his eye that’s halfway hopeful.
This is the first line from the literary masterpiece that is Underworld, from Don DeLillo. The weight of those words “voice” and “American” combined with the “shine in his eye” and the emotion of the word “hopeful”… it’s all a wonder, made even better by the flowing cadence of the language. It’s a killer first line. And when you’re done the next almost 900 pages, you come back to that first line and see that’s what the whole book was about.
Easy right? Uh, sure.
When the curdled cream made a face in his coffee, Jim knew the universe was talking to him.
This is the first line to a story of mine published in Mystery Tribune. When I wrote this, I was thinking a lot about first lines being what a story is about. I tried out quite a number of openings before settling on this one. It’s not the best first line I’ve ever written, but I like the questions it asks, and ultimately how it reflects what the story is about: a person’s luck changing.
Here are the next two lines, which build on the theme of bad luck and change:
At first, he was surprised, because he was used to the fake stuff at the diner he usually hit in the morning. But then he saw those lumps of sour milk were just like the string of bad luck that stretched back three weeks to seven years, depending on who was keeping score.
I’ll let you be the judge if this line worked for the rest of the story. You can read it here at Mystery Tribune.
I’ll leave it there for now. Remember, it’s not good to idle your engines. Just pull out of your driveway and head down the street. Trust me, I’ll follow you.
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Don't warm up your engines
Good stuff, Craig. My stories often start with a tone or mood but I tend to get carried away, delaying the action. I just got a story accepted with two suggested edits, one re this very topic. My submission had this first sentence: "Mickey Barnes paused, heavy wooden door thumping shut behind him." My revised opening: "Mickey Barnes was back for his money. He banged through the heavy wooden door." After that, my ruthless line edits cut the opening scene from 3 1/2 to 2 1/2 pages. Not as dramatic as MacDonald or Stark, but an improvement, I think. Ken
Your post immediately made me check the first line of the story I'm writing right now. I think it's OK. It certainly explains what the story is all about, at least in appearance. Thanks Craig, great post!