The Angst of an Opening Sentence
Or Just Walk the Plank
Sometimes, I think the opening sentence of a book is one of the hardest things to write. I want to throw myself and the reader right into the action. There needs to be no 45-minute meandering explanation to set up the story, the characters, or the place, even though that’s what I am inclined to do. Maybe that’s why the advice I heard many years ago to scrap the first three chapters of any novel is good practice.
“Avast, me hearties!” A pirate, of course, encourages the sailors to business.
“Hey, let that go.” The toddler and dog are playing tug of war with a towel.
“Watch out what you’re doing.” Coffee gets splashed all over somebody’s lap.
Perhaps I should just settle down and get some first lines going. It would be sort of like practicing what I am going to say on a date — a date with somebody I don’t know, a date with somebody who is a friend of a friend.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I hope I’m not too early.”
“No, right on time.” I put out my hand to shake his hand. “I am, as advertised, Norma.”
“Oh, heh. Yes, of course. I’m Ted.”
“Does anybody ever call you Theo?”
