A number of years ago I heard an agent speak and the one thing she said that has stayed with me was: “The first line will sell the book. The last line will sell the next book.”
This really began to hit home the more I wrote, because the more I wrote and had that “internal editor” taking up permanent residence on my shoulder, it made me hard to please when it comes to reading fiction. An author really has to grab me from the get-go to keep me reading these days.
While some stories and characters lend themselves to pull-you-in opening sentences a lot of the time it takes a few paragraphs to give the reader a bit more to become involved in. Most of the time a few paragraphs is all you’ll have when your submission comes across an editor or agent’s desk.
The biggest obstacle you’ll need to work around especially when being fairly new to writing is starting your story too soon. I think beginning a story in the wrong place is a rite of passage that all writers come up against when starting out.
That isn’t a bad thing at all. While years of writing have helped me be a better judge of finding the “right” place to start there are still times I find myself trimming to cut the excess that can be worked in a bit later.
What you’re likely to find is that most of this excess is backstory, the events that have brought your character (s) to this particular place in time.
The main purpose is to entice the reader into your particular fictional world.
The best openings:
1) Give a clue as to the book’s genre (Romance, Mystery Horror, etc.) or sub-genre (Romantic-suspense, Paranormal-romance)
2) Give a clue as to the setting—Contemporary, Historical, Futuristic etc.
2) Give us a taste of the story’s tone—comedic, suspenseful, etc.
3) Introduce us to a main character and/or problem one of the main characters will face. This tends to fall under the heading of “The Inciting Incident”, that situation which brings your main characters together and puts them at odds.
4) The most important function of your opening is to leave enough “questions” lingering in the reader’s mind so that they are compelled to turn the page and find out “what happens next”.
I can’t quite remember where I read it but the best how-to book advice I’ve come across is was to begin a novel “On the day that everything changes”.
This refers back to number three on my little list of what story openings should do. However, if your romantic-suspense heroine comes across the dead body of her boss at 11 pm just as the police arrive from an anonymous tip and see her kneeling beside the body covered in blood because she tried CPR you don’t want to begin the book at 7 am on the fateful day and show her waking up and going about the business of getting ready for work.
The common mistake is to start with something like this because we think it shows character development if we have the heroine doing her make up while catching a glimpse of a portrait of the parents who keep bugging her about getting married before she’s too old to make them grandparents.
Don’t get me wrong, such information (the backstory) can be essential in breathing life into your characters but you don’t want to bog things down by telling us too much or every little action that leads us to the point where this heroine is found over the body and meets the hot shot private detective she turns to for help and who will track down the real killer.
I’ve grabbed a few random books from my overflowing shelves and added them below. I can point out what draws me in about the particular piece as well as examples from my own work since I can better explain what I hope the opening scenes accomplish.
Opening Example One
Summer Hawthorne wasn’t having a particularly good night, though she smiled and said all the right things to all the right people. Someone was watching her. She’d been feeling it all evening long, but she had absolutely no idea who it was. Or why.
The opening reception at the elegant Sansone Museum was small and exclusive—only the very rich and very powerful were invited to the tiny museum in the Santa Monica Mountains to view the collection of exquisite Japanese ceramics. And even if she wasn’t particularly fond of one of those guests, he’d have no reason to watch her.
Her assistant, Micah Jones, resplendent in deep porple, sidled up to her. “I’m leaving you, my darling. This is winding down, and no one will miss me. I’m assuming everything’s going well, and I’ve got an offer I can’t refuse.” He grinned
Summer jumped, startled. “Evil man,” she said lightly. “Abandoning me in my time of need. Go ahead. I’ve got everything under control. Even his holiness.”
Micah glanced at their guest of honor and shuddered dramatically. “I can stay and shield you.
“Not on your life! The True Realization Fellowship and their slimy leader are just a bunch of harmless crackpots. Hollywood’s religion du jour. Besides, you’ve been celibate for too long, or so you’ve been complaining.”
“If you’d wear anything but black you might get lucky, too,” Micah said, candid as ever. “Even so, you look marvelous.”
“You lie,” she said, ignoring her uneasiness. “But I love you, anyway. Despite the fact that you’re ditching the reception early.”
Micah smiled his dazzling smile. “True love waits for no man.” He leaned down and gave her an exuberant kiss. “You know your room’s ready for you if you need it. Just ignore any whoops of pleasure coming from my bedroom.”
“You’re a very bad man,” she said affectionately, I’m fine, I promise you. You can enjoy yourself in private.”
He blew her a kiss, sauntering off through the crowd, and she watched him go, ignoring her sudden, irrational pang of unease. Feeling the eyes digging into her back once more.
She was half tempted to call Micah back, ask him to wait. The reception would be over in another half hour, and then she could follow him down
~ Anne Stuart
Ice Blue
Barb sez: Right away you know this is a romantic suspense. You can feel the aura of menace from Summer’s pov
Opening Example Two
Fear.
Adrian King could smell it. The stink of raw emotion filled his nostrils, burned the back of his throat, made his eyes see red; it flooded his senses and threatened to break through the protective shield that kept him in control, kept him sane. Yet you draw closer to insanity, to madness, with each passing day, Adrian reminded himself as his gaze swept the crowded casino.
The unmistakable odor of fear hit him again, harder this time, like a fist slamming into his gut. For a moment he was robbed of breath; he felt light-headed, dizzy. He swayed on his feet, then staggered back on his heels.
Adrian closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He remembered a day many years before—centuries before— it was the time of his hep-sed celebration, the Festival of the Tail. How invincible he’d felt as he’d run the obstacle course that tested the physical prowess of the pharaoh racing along the banks of the blue Nile, jumping high hurdles as if they were no more than a small hindrance: in his way, wrestling the best of his personal guard and emerging, victorious, shooting his arrows straight to their target.
He drew pleasure from the memory of the military ; he’d planned and successfully executed during the daylong battles he had fought as one of the Black-Land’s warrior-kings. He knew what his loyal troops had said of him more than three thousand years ago: Memepetah Seti, whose secret name was known not even to his mother, Horus incarnate, son of Amon-Re, resurrected Osiris, King of Upper Egypt and Lower Egypt, Uniter of the Two Lands, descended of Tuthmosis, who had reigned nearly three hundred years before him, and of Memeptah and Seti, his namesakes, and even of the Great Ramses himself, was unequaled as a military commander and warrior.
Adrian called on that training and discipline now. He knew if he didn’t take control of the situation it could quickly become dangerous, even life-threatening. Not to him, but to them: the people who were crammed into his casino three-and four-deep around the blackjack tables, the roulette wheels, even the slot machines.
~Elizabeth Guest
Night Life
Barb sez: Ahhh paranormal from the get-go and just the right amount of historical details to give us a peak into an exotic location of times past.
The combination of a horse galloping far too fast, a muddy lane with a curve, and a lady pedestrian is never a good one. Even in the best of circumstances, the odds of a positive outcome are depressingly low. But add a dog— a very big dog—and, Anna Wren reflected, disaster becomes inescapable.
The horse in question made a sudden sideways jump at the sight of Anna in its path. The mastiff, jogging beside the horse, responded by running under its nose, which, in turn, made the horse rear. Saucer-sized hooves flailed the air. And inevitably, the enormous rider on the horse’s back came unseated. The man went down at her feet like a hawk shot from the sky, if less gracefully. His long limbs sprawled as he fell, he lost his crop and tricorn, and he landed with a spectacular splash in a mud puddle. A wall of filthy water sprang up to drench her.
Everyone, including the dog, paused.
Idiot, Anna thought, but that was not what she said. Respectable widows of a certain age—one and thirty in two months—do not hurl epithets, however apt, at gentlemen. No, indeed.
“I do hope you are not damaged by your fall,” she said instead. “May I assist you to rise?” She smiled through gritted teeth at the sodden man.
He did not return her pleasantry. “What the hell were you doing in the middle of the road, you silly woman?”
The man heaved himself out of the mud puddle to loom over her in that irritating way gentlemen had of trying to look important when they’d just been foolish. The dirty water beading on his pale, pockmarked face made him an awful sight. Black eyelashes clumped together lushly around obsidian eyes, but that hardly offset the large nose and chin and the thin, bloodless lips.
“I am so sorry.” Anna’s smile did not falter. “I was walking home. Naturally, had I known you would be needing the entire width of the throughway—”
But apparently his question had been rhetorical. The man stomped away, dismissing her and her explanation. He ignored his hat and crop to stalk the horse, cursing it in a low, oddly soothing monotone.
The dog sat down to watch the show.
~Elizabeth Hoyt
The Raven Prince
Barb sez: As with the others the opening sets the time and place perfectly. We can see that Anna’s got spunk that shines through her oh so ladylike propriety.
Opening Example Four
“You want me to do what?” Carol Bakker asked, her eyes opening wide in disbelief. She hadn’t heard her friend correctly. She couldn’t have heard correctly.
Terry Wallach splashed cold water on her pale cheeks. “I want you to fill in for me tonight,” she repeated before another spasm contracted her stomach. She slowly straightened, grimacing as her stomach began to ache again.
Carol licked her dry lips then handed Terry the packet of Pepto Bismol tablets she carried in her purse.”I can’t do what you do. I only serve drinks. I don’t strip,” she said quietly.
Patting a stray strand of hair into place, she leaned against the small vanity table near the sink, afraid that her knees were going to give out and send her toppling off her stiletto heels.
“I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else, but you know that two of the girls are out with this flu already. One is away on vacation and Suzi and Arizona are working on the big stage out front tonight. There’s no one else here to go on in my place.”
“But–“
”There is no ‘but’,” Terry said. “Vince won’t call in a replacement. He won’t trust any stranger with this gig.”
“I can’t dance and take my clothes off in front of people.” Carol tugged on the hem of her short uniform skirt and prayed that Terry would drop the whole idea. She didn’t want to have to choose between loyalty to her best friend and her dignity because she knew that dignity didn’t stand a chance against a friend in need.
Terry looked at Carol again. “You won’t be working out front with four hundred beady eyes gawking at you. It’s a small bachelor party. There will be two dozen guys there, tops.”
Carol winced. “Two dozen? That makes only fortyeight beady eyes, right?” She looked down at the checkerboard floor tiles.
Although she hated to admit it, she was tempted to act as Terry’s replacement because she envied the way the dancers could lose all inhibition and become different people while on stage. The sizable tips they earned during each brief shift weren’t too shabby either. Still, it was out of the question. She simply couldn’t do it.
“Think of it this way,” Terry said, leaning back against the sink. “These beady eyes will belong to Boston’s upper crust. This party is for Bradley Davis.” Terry grinned when Carol’s eyes opened wide.
“Bradley Davis, the writer?”
“That’s him.” Terry paused. “Interested?”
Carol tugged on the hem of her skirt again. “I don’t think so, Ter. I don’t dance that well and”
“Your dancing is just fine,” Terry interrupted. “You’ve practiced with me, you know the moves. Just pretend that you’re cleaning up after those rugrats of yours. The only difference will be that the music is coming out of three foot high speakers instead of those little headphones from your CD player.”
Carol’s jaw dropped, but only for a second. “The only difference will be that I’m naked in front of a roomful of strange men.”
Don’t worry, you won’t have any complaints.”
“No, Ter, I can’t….” Carol’s voice trailed off as Terry bent over the sink again. Her face was paler when she recovered from this spasm and Carol felt her dignity fray around the edges.
“You have to-do this for me, Carol. This gig is such a big deal for Vince and I can’t go out there, heaving my guts up.”
Terry looked at herself in the mirror. “I look like a redheaded specter of death, not every bachelor’s dream.”
Lowering her gaze, Carol tried not to remember the times Terry had helped her out when she needed it. But she couldn’t repay the kindness now, certainly not like this. She hated wearing her skimpy waitress uniform, how could she reveal even more in public? She looked up, planning to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all, but the silent plea in Terry’s bleary eyes prevented her. “Vince can book another ritzy bachelor party.”
“Not for the likes of Bradley Davis,” Terry said,
enunciating the name slowly. “If Vince can start pulling in a high class clientele it will be good for all of us.”
Carol sighed, knowing that she was defeated. “I guess I could do it just this once,” she said miserably while a flood of doubts and fears deluged her. She almost ran for safer ground when Terry went to the dressing room to get her a costume, but her sense of loyalty kept her feet firmly anchored.
~Barbara Sheridan
Angel City
Barb sez: What I wanted to do was give not only insight into the compassionate person Carol is but to show that she’s getting into a fish out fo water situation whether she realizes it or not. I also wanted to show the contrast between her humble blue collar life and the silver spoon society she’ll be whisked into which hopefully appeals to readers like me who love a good old fashioned “Cinderella story”.
Choctaw Nation
Indian territory 1892
A sheen of purpose highlighted Star McNamara’s cinnamon brown eyes as she spoke.
“Choctaw women have always had a place of honor within the tribe and yet we allow ourselves to be held back by not demanding an equal say in the politics of the Nation.”
She paused and leaned forward in her chair. “The election of major tribal leaders is only four months away, and if we women band together and start clamoring for our right to vote in future elections, the politicians will have to take notice or risk losing the support of our voting husbands and fathers.”
Libby Hillhouse suppressed a smile as she refilled her teacup. “I’m afraid that the only thing I clamor for in this condition is a decent night’s sleep.” She patted her swollen belly. “This little dickens is so active at night that I can barely catch a wink.”
Libby’s sister-in-law, Talulah Hillhouse laughed. “You just wait until he’s born, If he’s anything like my four, you’ll know what active really means. Lord, but those boys are a handful.”
Star gritted her teeth as the other women redirected the conversation yet again. Although she felt a bit outcast having no domestic experiences of her own to relate to, Star didn’t envy her friends. Why should she? Unlike them she was free to come and go as she pleased with no husband or children to tie her down. No, she didn’t envy them at all.
Star sipped her herb tea and toyed with the sugary cake on the plate in front of her, watching the way Libby rubbed her belly and cooed to her unborn child when it stirred in her womb. However, Star failed to acknowledge the strange sinking feeling in her own stomach.
Star pushed her cup aside. “I don’t mean to rush off, but I’m going to see if Peter fixed my horse’s shoe. I have to get back to town to finish today’s edition of the Sentinel.” She stood. “Thank you for the snack, Libby. Give my regards to Jake and the boys, Talulah. I’ll see you all in church—”
“Hello, ladies!” the older brother of Libby and Talulah’s husbands called through the open back door. “Hello to you, too, Star,” he added with a touch of sarcasm.
Star counted to ten before turning to face the most obnoxious man she’d ever met. “Hello, Jason. Goodbye, Jason.”
He made no move to let her pass and when Star grumbled, he broke into a wide grin.
Star hated that grin.
In fact, she’d hated that grin for most of her twenty-four years and she wanted very much to slap it off of Jason Hillhouse’s well-chiseled face.
“Do you mind? I have a newspaper to publish.”
Jason pushed his wide brimmed hat back a little. “If you want me to move, all you have to do is ask.”
Star let out an exasperated sigh before motioning with her hand. “Will you move?”
Jason folded his arms across his broad chest. “There, I moved.”
Star glared at him while the amusement in his dark eyes taunted her as did the muffled laughter of his brother’s wives. “I don’t have time for your childish games. Will you get out of my way?” She anticipated his next jibe. “Please.”
Jason stepped aside laughing a laugh that was as deep and rich as his speaking voice.
“Oaf,” Star muttered as she walked out past the tall Choctaw peace officer. She stopped in her tracks when Jason called to her.
“If you’re looking for Peter, he’s not here. He took your nag over to our parents’ ranch because he let me have the last horseshoe for Shubuta.”
She threw up her hands in a gesture of disgust then stalked back towards the porch. Jason intercepted her at the bottom of the steps.
“Don’t bother asking Libby if you can borrow a mount. Peter took his extra two along. It seemed practical since they were due to be reshod soon.” Jason grinned. “If you want a ride to town, I guess you’ll just have to ride double with me.” He paused for effect. “Of course, you’ll have to ask me first.”
Star pointed down. “As you can see, I have working legs. I’ll walk.” She strode away only to be stopped once again by Jason’s comment.
“It’s half past three. Walking’ll take at least an hour. I can get there in half that time.”
Star felt like a trapped rabbit with a wolf closing in. She looked at the small enameled watch pinned to her shirt. If she wasn’t back by 4:15, today’s edition would be printed before e she could get in her editorial and she needed people to read it before tonight. Her friend Seth had decided to reference it in his speech at the political meeting they were attending.
“It’s a limited time offer, sweetheart.”
Star spun around. “Oh, all right! And before you act like a fool again–May I ride back to town with you, please?” She ground out the last word between clenched teeth. Jason irritated her further by pretending to mull it over.
“It is out of my way, but what the hell. I’m in a generous mood today. Just let me fill my canteen first.”
~Barbara Sheridan
Bittersweet Surrender
Barb sez: I’m sure many people don’t like the log line time/place set up to start things off but as a reader I love it because I can immediately get my mental images and characters in the right “costume and scenery”.
With this opening I wanted to give a hint of the characters lifelong relationship, their conflict and try to inject some of the research I’d acquired as a natural part of the plot and characters’ viewpoint so that it didn’t come across as an “info dump”.
