Last year I had occasion to read a batch of ten page manuscript submissions in a hurry, one right after the other. What I noticed was startling in its consistency.
All of the writers had clearly spent time learning their craft. All of them had something to say. And all of them, by meticulously following what they’d been taught, had rendered their stories mute in the exact same way.
It was heartbreaking, given the talent in the room.
So, using this as a cautionary tale, let’s take a look at the three seemingly common sense rules they diligently followed, and explore why the result was the definition of irony: rather than hooking the reader, they locked the reader out.
The rules are:
- Start with a bang, leap into action.
- Give us specific details, especially sensory details, to bring the story to life.
- Hint at crucial information, but don’t reveal it right away, the better to lure the reader in.
So what was the problem? [pullquote]In every case, the dramatic events that unfolded on those first ten pages were clearly intended to have great meaning, but the author hadn’t given us a clue as to what that meaning was. Or why it mattered. To anyone.[/pullquote]
In every case, the dramatic events that unfolded on those first ten pages were clearly intended to have great meaning, but the author hadn’t given us a clue as to what that meaning was. Or why it mattered. To anyone. Except in the most general, generic sense. Which isn’t to say that specifics didn’t abound. They did. Everything in each scene was described to the nth degree. Sometimes beautifully. But all you wanted to do was bat those details out of the way to get a glimpse of what the heck was really going on. Trouble is, that was something the writers were keeping off the page – on purpose.
The result?
If it was a battle scene, other than a designated “good” and “bad” side, we had no idea what they were battling over, what would happen as a consequence, or what anyone’s death would mean other than, you know, that they were no longer alive. But we could sure picture the armor they wore.
If it was a mystery, a sinister meeting full of portent took place, but we had no idea who anyone was, or why they were acting so strangely. Which can have the unfortunate side effect of making everything sound slightly melodramatic. But we could taste the metallic tang of blood wafting from the bike messenger’s tattered blue raincoat.
If it was a thriller, strangers met in the fog with upturned collars and had cryptic conversations about . . . well, who knows, but I’m guessing it was important. Especially since we could feel the silvery intensity of the fog, like a protective cloak, shrouding the mountaintop, hemming in closely held secrets.
If it was a sci-fi fantasy, an angry wizard was livid, furiously raging that his latest spell didn’t work, and as a result . . . I have no idea. But I bet it was something pretty bad. At least as bad as the putrid smell of molten flesh emanating from the glistening beaker that . . . oh, never mind.
And here’s the killer thing: in each of these stories, deep down, I saw a potent seed that was slowly being smothered. Something that, had it been allowed to take root and poke its head above the bland surface, just might have blossomed into something genuinely compelling.
Why didn’t it? Let’s dive into these oft-misunderstood rules one-by-one and find out:
1. Start with a bang, leap into action.
This is great advice. I give it myself. It goes like this: The first goal of any story is to make the reader want to know what happens next. The only way to do that is to make sure something is happening in the first place. When we start reading a story, we’re jonesing for the feeling that something out of the ordinary is happening. We crave the notion that we’ve come in at a crucial juncture in someone’s life, and not a moment too soon. What intoxicates us is the hint that not only is trouble brewing, but it’s longstanding and about to reach critical mass. Shhhh! our brain hisses, something big is about to happen here, and I don’t want to miss it . . .
What this rule is often (mis)taken to mean
The authors of the submissions I read all took this piece of advice to heart. Very wisely, none of them made the rookie mistake of giving us reams of backstory so we’d understand what was going on by the time the story actually started. Instead, each writer leapt in at a crucial juncture, when something seminal was happening.[pullquote]When we start reading a story, we’re jonesing for the feeling that something out of the ordinary is happening. We crave the notion that we’ve come in at a crucial juncture in someone’s life, and not a moment too soon.[/pullquote]
Which is good, right? Trouble is, they took it a little too literally. So they zoomed in and gave us a clear blow-by-blow of said encounter, as if we were watching it in extreme close up. So we had no overarching context — no yardstick — by which to gauge what the encounter meant.
It was like watching a random mid-tournament round of a grilmax game. Can you imagine? Of course you can’t, ‘cause I just made that game up. That’s how it feels when we’re plunged into a battle, a conversation, even a make-out session, without context. Sure, we can see what’s happening, but we have no idea what the point is, or why it matters. And so, it doesn’t.
What it Really Means
Here’s the thing: nothing means anything all by itself. A beautiful cloud free day means one thing if you’re planning a lavish outdoor wedding, and quite another if it’s the 1000th such day of a worldwide drought.
So rather than just diving into “something that’s happening” the goal is to ground that “something” in an ongoing reality – a context — that gives it meaning. The reader needs to grasp that reality, and have a sense of what the consequence of the event might be, from the get-go.
And here’s the key ingredient: we have to care about that consequence. The only way we’ll care is if we’re experiencing it through someone’s point of view (read: the protagonist’s). That is, the person who will be affected by it, because that’s what we’re affected by. [pullquote]We don’t root for situations. We don’t even root for people. We root for a person.[/pullquote]
We don’t root for situations. We don’t even root for people. We root for a person.
2. Give us specific details, especially sensory details, to bring the story to life.
This is also great advice. ‘Cause the story is in the specifics. And specifics are something we can, indeed, visualize. If we can’t see it, we can’t feel it. “Images drive the emotions as well as the intellect,” says cognitive scientist Steven Pinker, who goes on to call images “thumpingly concrete.” Abstract concepts, generalities and conceptual notions have a hard time engaging us, because since we can’t see them, feel them, or otherwise experience them, we have to focus on them really, really hard, consciously—and even then our brain is not happy about it. Anyone who’s ever tried to read the tax code, or a textbook on string theory, knows exactly what I mean. We tend to find abstract concepts thumpingly boring. Thus it’s no surprise that an effective story takes a general situation, idea, or premise and personifies it via the very specific.
What this rule is often (mis)taken to mean
The writers had definitely given us lots and lots of very visual specifics. The problem was, they hadn’t realized that there’s more to it than that. Here’s the irony: they gave us general specifics. What is that, you might ask, other than an oxymoron?
It’s this: general specifics are details about the background – not backstory – but literally, the background. What things look like, in detail, as if it were a painting. What things taste like, in detail, as if we’d never tasted a strawberry. What things feel like, in general, as if we don’t know that a soldier on the battlefield is afraid he might die, and, um, not want to. [pullquote] What made the submissions I read so uninvolving was that they gave us a slew of specifics, but no context to let us know why we needed to know any of it.[/pullquote]
What made the submissions I read so uninvolving was that they gave us a slew of specifics, but no context to let us know why we needed to know any of it. This tends to lead to that feeling we used to get back in elementary school: Uh oh, looks like there’s gonna be a test . . . at which point we do what we did back then. Bail and see if there’s anything good on TV.
What it Really Means
Here’s the scoop: everything in a story needs to be there for a story reason, including descriptions of weather, the protagonist’s tousled auburn locks, and the sumptuous taste of a ripe, red strawberry. We don’t care about anything “just because.” And this is exponentially true on the first few pages, when we’re trying to get a bead on what the story will be about. We’re looking for that “yardstick” by which to measure the protagonist’s progress. That means that every single detail must be rooted not only in the specific scene we’re being yanked into, but in the overarching story as well, so we begin to understand why, specifically, what’s happening matters beyond this particular scene.
For instance, going back to that fearful soldier on the battlefield, the question isn’t: Is he afraid of dying? We all know the answer: You betcha! The real question is: what does dying, at this minute, mean to him? For instance, who will he leave behind who needs him now more than ever? What won’t he accomplish that he swore on his mother’s grave he would? What burning promise won’t he be able to keep? What wrong must he live till dawn to set right? [pullquote]It always comes back to this: what do these events mean to the protagonist, given what his agenda is?[/pullquote]
Yep, it always comes back to this: what do these events mean to the protagonist, given what his agenda is? If we don’t have an idea of what that might be right there on the first page, there’s only one answer we can come up with: they don’t mean much of anything.
3. Hint at crucial information, but don’t reveal it right away, the better to lure the reader in.
Of the three rules, this one is the most treacherous – and the least true. In fact, it’s often what causes writers to wildly “misuse” the first two rules. But before we get into that, what is this rule, exactly?
It’s rooted in something we all know to be true: a story must incite a sense of urgency that makes the reader want to know what happens next. And the way to do it, this rule implies, is rather than letting us in on what’s happening, much better to hide it and hint that “something big” – and largely unspecified – lurks just around the next bend. Because then surely the reader will read forward, dying to find out what’s really going on. Makes complete sense, right? Trouble is, writers often take it so to heart that it ends up undermining their story out of the starting gate.
What this rule is often (mis)taken to mean
The problem with the submissions I read, was that the writers had held so much back that we had no way to anticipate what might happen next, largely because we had no real idea what was going on, period. In fact, writers often do such a good job of keeping it secret, that readers have no idea there even is a secret. What these writers tend to forget is that first readers have to want to know the secret (not to mention know that there is one). Here’s the irony: more often than not, it’s the very information the writer’s withholding that would make the reader care.
Here’s the double irony: instead of giving us specifics to clue into what’s actually happening – and why it matters to the protagonist — the writer instead supplies myriad specifics that amount to an up-close view of what’s going on physically. Have you ever read six pages of in-depth play-by-play description of a stagecoach nearly falling off a sheer cliff, and all you knew was that Miss Belle was trapped within? Who is Miss Belle you ask? I just told you! See what I mean?
There is little that’s more boring than a purely physical description of, well, anything – the more detailed, the less involving.
And it doesn’t matter a whit if ten pages later we learned that Miss Belle is an out-of-work saloon gal betrothed to the stern sheriff, and his reckless but good-hearted kid brother had staged the whole stagecoach near-disaster, the better to save Belle and win her heart.[pullquote]Here’s a handy rule of thumb that’s self-evident when you think about it: if the reader doesn’t know there’s intrigue afoot, then there is no intrigue afoot.[/pullquote]
Here’s a handy rule of thumb that’s self-evident when you think about it: if the reader doesn’t know there’s intrigue afoot, then there is no intrigue afoot. So although the writer knew where the Belle-stagecoach thing was going, the reader not only didn’t know, but didn’t care.
And one final thing about the danger of withholding key info early on with the sole intent of luring the reader in: You’re not fooling anyone. The reader can see exactly what you’re doing. It’s as if the writer’s standing right in front of them taunting: “I know what’s going on, and you don’t. Ha ha!” How annoying is that?
What it Really Means
Don’t be afraid of grounding us in what’s actually happening. In fact, don’t be afraid of coming right out and telling us where the story is going. My favorite example is always the opening sentence of Elizabeth George’s brilliant What Came Before He Shot Her: “Joel Campbell, eleven years old at the time, began his descent toward murder with a bus ride.” Right there she tells us that Joel is going to be involved in a murder. First line, she steps in and gives the whole thing away! And that’s what makes the novel so riveting.[pullquote]Here’s the skinny: we don’t come to story simply to find out what happens, we come to find out how and why.[/pullquote]
Here’s the skinny: we don’t come to story simply to find out what happens, we come to find out how and why. Why would a kid like Joel (who we quickly come to love and root for) get involved with a murder? How would that happen? We’re dying to know. That’s what keeps us reading madly for six hundred pages, until the murder actually occurs. And breaks our hearts on so many levels at once.
What broke my heart about those submissions last year was that maybe, just maybe, if they’d opened with a line like that – if they’d clued us into what was really going on – right now you’d be reading them, too. Maybe next year.
But now, what about you? What’s your secret for luring readers in and having them at hello?
About Lisa Cron
Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story: The Writer’s Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers From the Very First Sentence and Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste 3 Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). Her video tutorial, Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story, can be found at Lynda.com. Her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity. A frequent speaker at writers conferences, schools and universities, Lisa's passion has always been story. She currently works as a story coach helping writers, nonprofits, educators and journalists wrangle the story they're telling onto the page; contact her here.
Lisa, your posts are the most anticipated, instructive and helpful on this blog. Thanks so much for another great one.
Thanks so much, Jack, I’m blushing! I learn so much from WU myself — everyday I feel privileged to be in such amazing company.
Wow, Lisa! As a first time novelist, I’ve read a lot about how to start a novel, what’s needed to grab a reader or agent/editor on the first page, etc.
I’m now wondering if my first chapter is guilty of what you’re referring to…
I guess I’ll find out pretty soon, I’m off to a writers conference and taking a workshop where I had to submit my first ten pages…
Wish I had read this a month ago, lol!
Good luck Leslie — and heck, since there’s no writing, only rewriting, my guess is that you probably have a terrific jumping off point. Here’s to the power of story — yours!
There’s a great side-plot in a Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets a new phone number that is very close to Moviefone (a movie information line), and he keeps getting the wrong numbers. Instead of fighting it, Kramer starts delivering the info as if he was an automated recording. In one scene he asks the caller to enter a numerical code to select the movie. He realizes he can’t decipher the sounds of the digit tones, and in the robotic voice says, “Why don’t you just TELL me the name of the movie you’d like to see.” So now when we’re not getting enough information during a story opening (movie, TV show, or book), my wife and I quote Kramer.
Lisa, I need to thank you. I’ve done three beta-reads in the past month, and in my discussion of the opening in all three critiques I asked if they’d read Wired for Story, and if not, to do so before their next rewrite. I do what I can and leave the rest to you. Makes things easier. Now, if only I could be sure *I’m* following your wise council. ;-)
Oh Vaughn, I so deeply love this reference. I think I may be the only person on the planet who’s never seen a minute of Seinfeld, but I’m heading to YouTube right now to see if I can find this clip. And, BTW, I LOVED a recent post on your blog, Setting The Circumstances (http://vaughnroycroftblog.com/2013/08/06/setting-the-circumstances/), and have been using a quote you referenced ever since: “If a man does not know to what port he is steering, no wind is favorable to him.” ~Seneca
Just in case you never get around to it, here’s the Seinfeld clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qM79_itR0Nc
I’m honored that my post, and the quote, resonated, Lisa. You made my day! Thanks again!
Thanks, Vaughn, the clip is hilarious! And the thing is, I used to go to that theatre all the time when I lived in NYC . . . those were the days!
There are rules? I tend to ignore the rules and just write.
To each their own — if it works for you, go for it! For you, story might already be muscle memory. ‘Cause the real rules of story (as opposed to writing) are not imposed from the outside in, but stem from what we’re hardwired to expect in every story we hear.
Thanks, Lisa. I especially liked the following:
“Here’s the scoop: everything in a story needs to be there for a story reason …”
I’m currently working on a revision and scrapping details because they don’t contribute to the overall plot.
That’s perfect, Kathy, and it takes guts. Whacking your darlings is not for the faint of heart. Especially since they’re such crafty devils, they tend to sneak in when you’re not looking, and then they sit there beaming up with such lovely, innocent “who me?” smiles. Here’s to being utterly merciless, and slaying ’em with abandon. (Sheesh, think I’ve been reading too many horror manuscripts . . .)
Lisa-
Wondering if you’ve read “Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters” by John Steinbeck (of course). It’s the daily letters he wrote to his pal and editor Pascal Covici as he wrote “East of Eden.”
Because regarding the idea that every single word in a novel has to be there just for the story and you have to “kill your darlings” – Steinbeck wrote to Covici that he knew the story he put in EofE about his mother’s first plane ride really had nothing to do with the story and probably didn’t belong. But it was a good story and he wanted it in there.
And I think the fact that 20 some years after reading the book, I still remember that plane ride story (she took a ride in an open cockpit biplane with a barnstormer) means that Steinbeck was right. I’m glad he didn’t believe in the whole “kill your darlings” thing. If he had, we might never have seen a word of “Cannery Row.”
This is thorough and helpful in many ways, Lisa. Thank you for dissecting so well some very important points on story openings and how and why they thrive or fall. Excellent.
Thanks, Jennifer!
Thanks, Lisa. I especially liked what you said about linking all the details to the “story reason.” I believe I’ve done this, but maybe I’d better spend the morning double checking!
Sounds like a wise plan, Christina, here’s to ferreting out all those sneaky details that don’t in some way advance the story, set the tone, give us insight into the protagonist or the theme. Happy hunting!
Lisa,
In your response to Christina, you stated, “…advance the story, set the tone, give us insight into the protagonist or the theme…”. Until that point I feared your references to physical background descriptions required they actively participate in pushing the story forward.
I understood and agreed with all of your other items and explanations but worried about that one item. Now my moonless nights, snowfall, rainfall, wind blowing across a grassy plateau, and other such elements can at least have hope of surviving the reaping.
Thank you for the article.
Be well,
William
Thanks for this post, Lisa. I’m going to go through my first few pages using your advice to make sure I’m doing it right.
Thanks, Patricia — here’s hoping you found each and every loose cannon, or better yet, realized you’d already banished ’em.
Great post! I’ve been writing mostly nonfiction for the past few years, but I’m getting ready to complete, revise, and/or polish a lot of fiction sitting in file boxes. What a great set of helpful tips for this new effort!
I just wanted to say that this is best writing craft article I’ve read in a long time. Thank you!
Great post, Lisa! Really helpful! Thank you.
Wonderful, concise, and clear, Lisa. Thank you–it’s so tempting for my students (and me!) to try to write too toward for the attention economy of the marketplace -“If you don’t get noticed, no one’s going to wonder why.”
Your piece is an practical, updated version of EM Forster’s wonderful essay on Plot Vs. Story in Aspects of the Novel.
Thank you for this insightful post, Lisa. You explain things beautifully!
Lisa-
There are about fifty partials in my folder right now which illustrate your points.
Drawing readers into one’s story world is a balance: events + meaning, characters warm + troubled, setting rich + minimal, pace fast + thoughtful.
Easy right? Of course not. But unless the opening gets the balance right there is no reader engagement.
As a homework exercise, it might be fun to go back to our favorite novels to see how they both obey and break those rules. Because they do.
Thanks, Lisa.
Darn! Now I don’t know if I should follow or break the rules.
Break the rules? Obey? Yes. The best is always a synergy, an inventive remix.
Thank you for writing this article. It’s helped me and I know it will help others–that’s why I’m going to share it on Google +.
Lisa,
Ka-boom! I get it. (Now, to do it.)
Lisa,
Ka-boom! I get it. Thanks. (Now, to do it.)
I think doing the opposite of what may seem intuitive to a writer by letting a reader in on the protagonist’s pain or secret (whatever lies at the heart of that character’s need for change) is key–at least for me. I read a book years ago, The Second Coming of Lucy Hatch by former WU’er Marsha Moyer, that taught me this lesson. Here’s the first line of that story: “I was thirty-three years old when my husband walked out into the field one morning and never came back and I went in one quick leap from wife to widow.” Boom. I cared. I read. And I loved the book. Maybe in part because my expectations were established from the first sentence.
Really, this is such important stuff (Important Stuff!) and you’ve done a fantastic job lifting the veil to show how it works best. Definitely one of the most helpful articles to appear on WU. I hope everyone having trouble with beginnings–or having trouble getting agents or editors to read beyond the first pages–studies this. Brava.
Lisa,
Just went back and listened to your interview with Joanna Penn again after reading this post. You’re so right. If I think like a reader, I’m a better writer. I think I need to come to your workshop on the 20th of next month. I’m going to advertise it around my writer’s group and see if I can get a car pool buddy.
I’m so sick of rewriting the opening pages of the novel I started last year. I keep taking revision breaks and writing short stories instead. I’ve over thought it to the point that it’s driving me crazy.
Help!
Greta
Very timely and wonderful advice. Thank you Lisa.
Hope there’s a second book coming out soon. Until then, all this wonderful advice we’re getting on WU is priceless!
I don’t worry about the beginning until the second draft. I start where the story starts and then go back after criticism.
I’m only now learning rule (guide) #2, but I’m with you on two and three. Unfortunately, I still get regular flack that my stories start out too slow. But in my personal taste I disagree. I think some stories need you to see the calm before the storm hits. So mine start a little slower (so far. I want to break that pattern in my next).
As for #3. I think the key is telling the relevant stuff. I hate scenes with unidentified people talking about vague plots. Some POV in that room should know what they’re talking about or at least context (if he’s an eaves dropper or something). So give some real information and then figure out how to turn it on its head later. Don’t give me half of the relevant info that you already know.
Well, now. That was spot-on wasn’t it? Excellent. Thank you :)
Good posting with great points.
I’ve heard this advice written in so many places that it’s good to have a little decoding so we’re not too far off the mark.
I’ve heard #1 more times than I can count. That’s not the way I do things, although I probably should. But the distinction is good to know.
#3 has kinda hard to not adhere to. Personally, I like to keep secrets when I’m submitting, but just maybe the art is all in how its unveiled. Not giving away too much but hinting that there is something that will eventually be given away
“Here’s the skinny”–It is possible to take any sensible rules or guidelines and carry them too far; this includes your reworking of the three classics discussed here. How? Readers in some genres (SF, mystery, …) often really like not knowing what is going on or why. Pages and pages that get them muttering WTF can really work (if the writing itself is good), and your advice could be the undoing of the very confusion they crave. In any genre, intelligent readers tend to prefer not to be told “why” or even to be shown why or how they should care or be interested. How much context is needed depends on the genre and the reader, and it truly is a judgment call.
That said, you highlight what is a core conundrum. In the end, knowing just how far to stretch the bungie cord of delayed disclosure is part of the art of writing fiction. Withhold enlightment and insight too long and you lose the reader; throw context at them too soon and you lose the reader.
Without having read the submissions you reference, it is impossible for us to tell where they fell on the three dimensions implicit in your reworking of the rules. We have to take your word for it. The persuasiveness of your thoughtful piece would have been enhanced with actual quotes and suggested reworks. That way we could tell just where you fall, not as a story consultant but as a reader. Maybe some more concrete context?
You can take anything too far. Couldn’t agree more. Of course, the real trick is in taking it just far enough . . . just saying.
I’ve read countless blog posts, articles, essays, chapters in how-to books and heard seemingly the same number of experts espouse at conferences, workshops and seminars on the importance of dazzling the Gods with your first sentence, crystalizing for all humanity to awe your first paragraph, rocking the very foundation of literature with your first page, immediately creating a global cult following with your first five pages—else your 400-page novel that you have spent three years writing will be a total waste of otherwise good oxygen for you to have written and summarily rejected by the gatekeepers. Not one of them has ever stopped to consider that novels are not read in a vacuum. There is a dust jacket, and on the back of it there lies a synopsis of who the protagonist is, what has blown up his world, and what’s at stake for him if he fails to correct the situation. No, we all must live in a fairytale world where we pick up novels without dust jackets and the burden of getting every freaking nuance of the story crammed into the very first WORD of the novel determines whether anyone will read the damn thing. Go ahead and harvest my organs, but I think, given the reader already knows the gist of what the story is about, that those sacred first ten pages should strive to do no harm—period.
Hey Cal, the thing is, even if the dust jacket is killer, if the first few pages are really boring, we don’t tend read further. End of story. Literally. I think you’re misunderstanding what’s being said. No one said anything like “crystalizing for all humanity to awe your first paragraph, rocking the very foundation of literature with your first page, immediately creating a global cult following with your first five pages.” All we’re saying is, you gotta make ’em want to know what happens never. That’s it, plain and simple.
Uh, that was, you got to make them wonder what happens next. Sheesh, where did never come from? ;-)
Cal-
If I may chime in, I understand your comment. The emphasis on first lines, first page and first five can seem silly, especially when the jacket already gives so much away.
However, stories cast a kind of spell on readers. To put it another way, effective stories draw us into the author’s world…or more precisely, into the world of the protagonist.
They do that–or they don’t. First lines make us welcome–or not. First pages sink us in a story that’s already real–or make us wait. The first five sweep us into unfolding events–or, you know, ignore us while the author spends a while warming up.
Openings do matter. They deserve the extra attention they get.
Lisa and Don,
I understand your points, as well, and I apologize for getting so carried away with mine.
Of course the first few pages are important. If the agent or publisher can’t get past them, there won’t be any readers. If there are readers, there won’t be very many of them. If a writer can’t get the first few pages right, what does that say about the rest of the writing? That’s why it’s the barometer everyone uses to evaluate manuscripts. Trust me, I am working as hard as I can to make my first few pages the very best they can be. And the next few pages and the next…
I just know that I wouldn’t buy a novel if the dust jacket blurb didn’t intrigue me, so I guess I’m a little more forgiving of the first few pages that I personally read. The most recent example that comes to mind is Gillian Flynn’s SHARP OBJECTS. Check out her opening paragraph, and ask yourself does it do the trick for you? It didn’t for me, but I still read and enjoyed the hell out of her book.
Again, sorry for the rant. I think I’ll just go back to writing, now (-:
The opening paragraph of Gillian Flynn’s SHARP OBJECTS is written well enough to make me respect the writing but it doesn’t pull me into the story. It does get me to read the second paragraph, which drops the bomb. Hooked!
This illustrates what I was trying to express. There are many ways to sell the story and seduce the reader. The sharp-edged originality of Flynn’s first lines works even though it is backdrop narrative.
Of course, having gotten the reader into the tent, you have to deliver the show. I have a Kindle full of hot first fifty pages that tapered off into tepid bathwater. In most cases I bailed by the hundredth page.
As a reader, I am probably more patient than most with a story that accelerates slowly, so long as the writing is intelligent and well-crafted. I think a lot of literary fiction fits this gentler story arc; genre fiction, like popular TV, has to deliver from the get-go.
Exactly. Your comment, “… written well enough to make me respect the writing [and] get me to read the second paragraph…” is what I meant by “do no harm” in my little tirade. The hook on the dust jacket is what initially hooks me. Then I check the writing (first few pages, random pages in the middle) to make sure I will enjoy the read at that level. I will read and recommend to others good stories that are well told. I have never shuddered and said, “Oh, man, don’t read that–it has an opening sentence that describes a woman’s sweater, for heaven’s sake.”
Fantastic! And incredibly insightful.
Great post, Lisa. I wish I’d read something like this years ago before I sweat blood and tears to discover what some of those rules really meant.
Sad really. Novels on rails, a writing school pattern clog-dancing from a. to b. in predictable – oh, so predictable sequence. I guess this comes of the agent/publisher tradition of judging a novel by its first ten pages and helps to throw a blanket over the real platform for the new writer – attendance at the right university, having the right friends. If I was at Oxford with you in …. you will take the trouble to read the whole of my book, then probably publish it. I imagine that is why I will never be published, and have to rest content with appreciation of what I do from a limited audience – but at least I’ll be true to myself.
Publishers need to publish books that readers want to (purchase) read. It’s a business. Publishers and agents have to make a living from books that readers will purchase. If readers don’t like the first few pages of a book they will not purchase the book. Publishers don’t have time to read through a complete novel before deciding if they want to publish it. The public can’t read an entire book through to the end to see if they want to buy the book, they won’t have the patience to stand in a bookstore and do that, and by then they’ve already read the book so why buy it?
Excellent advice. I’ve been doing some rewriting and realize I hadn’t started in the right place for a story, so this now makes me understand why it felt “off”.
Chiming in late to thank you for a most instructive post. I like bangs if they are interesting, but I realize that I’m most interested in who, not what.
“Here’s the skinny: we don’t come to story simply to find out what happens, we come to find out how and why. Why would a kid like Joel (who we quickly come to love and root for) get involved with a murder? How would that happen? We’re dying to know. That’s what keeps us reading madly for six hundred pages, until the murder actually occurs. And breaks our hearts on so many levels at once.”
This is the perspective from which I read and am compelled to write. Not the what, but the why and how come. Great article!
What a great post. As a new writer I’m learning a lot by reading about “the rules” and trying to emulate them; but I’ve also been concerned about being too restricted. It’s good to read your perspective. I will keep it in mind.
Thank you!
This was a great post! There’s so much advice out there about what to do and what not to do in the first few pages (and in general), but I love how you’ve deconstructed those rules and clarified what makes them work – and how they’re often misunderstood. Context is so important for getting a reader invested in the story (and in understanding those rules, really).
I have to admit, though, after reading the article I ran to my MS to check if I fell into those pitfalls of misuse. I’d like to think I haven’t!
Wonderful advice! It’s interesting how some of the most important writing tips can be the biggest hindrances when they’re not fully understood. I like to think I’m careful enough to avoid these mistakes, but I’m definitely bookmarking this both to remind myself to stay cautious and as a reference if I find myself slipping.
Good post. Thank you!
I enjoyed this post, and I think that it speaks to the heart of many writer’s group conversations.
Even though the “rules” can be helpful, they are not a comprehensive guideline to be followed on autopilot. In the end, we have to write what we can imagine being well enjoyed.
What a terrific article, Lisa! I’m an editor, and I also see a lot of manuscripts where it’s clear authors have diligently studied craft, and are doing everything “right,” but the story lies flat on the page. You have beautifully articulated why slavish devotion to writing dogmas can result in colorless, uninvolving, homogenized stories. I’ll pass this along to writers to encourage them to learn the rules…and then ignore them while doing their first drafts so they let their unique voice out onto the page. Thanks for a great article.
As a fledgling, I’m sure I’ve made these mistakes and I’ll be wary of them now, thank you!
Since you have consulted for both the small and big screen, perhaps you could put out a line to J.J. Abrams. Give him this advice, specifically the part about only hinting at things. Who knew shows could go 5 and 6 seasons without the central plot ever moving forward?
Thanks again.
What you said is exactly right. We care about the central character.
“We don’t root for situations. We don’t even root for people. We root for a person.”
We have to care about him or her – if we don’t, the story will not work.
Columbo episodes all started from the point where we knew who committed the murder. Then they unfolded to show us the “how” and the “why”.