Episode 174 - How to ruin our story's first sentences.

Hi writers, welcome to a new edition of our podcast on writing novels and short stories. This is Jim Thayer. I try to fill these episodes with useful techniques for us writers. You might have some time, have asked yourself, does Jim know all this stuff off the top of his head? The answer is a resounding no. Let me offer a moment of personal history and I'll be brief, mercifully brief. I had written a number of novels earlier in my writing life and then I was hired by the University of Washington Extension School to teach fiction writing. The course was a one year course involving 90 classroom hours. The students were all adults and I learned quickly that they were self-selecting, meaning many were already writers and many had already knew much about fiction writing. I knew I'd have to deliver. The trouble was when I was first hired I knew about an hour's worth of stuff off the top of my head. I had to develop a class. I spent months putting together a syllabus and the body of the class. I looked back at my earlier writing life when I was writing novels before this class and I hope I knew show rather than tell, I hope I showed, but I have a clear memory as I put together the class of coming across that technique in a text on fiction writing, showing rather than telling and thinking, yes, that's entirely correct, we should show not tell. It was a revelation to me, and I made showing a big part of a class because it's so important. I don't know if I knew the technique when writing my earlier novels. Same with BC plotting and same with interior monologue. I'm afraid to reread my earlier novels, lest I see poor techniques. So I wasn't born with many of these techniques I talk about in these episodes. I learned them. Over the course of a dozen years I taught the class, I added to the class content and refined it, trying to make it better and trying to give the students value for their time and money. For these podcasts, I long ago exhausted my class lecture notes and so I put together these episodes from new sources and old sources and from my experiences as a writer. So no, I don't know our techniques off the top of my head. But don't feel badly if you weren't born with all the writing techniques already in your brain. I wasn't either. I learned them. I'm still learning them, putting together these podcast episodes. But maybe some of us are born writers. Do we need to dedicate our life to becoming a great writer, maybe not? Some people appear to be born writers. One of them is Mary Weather Lewis, the explorer who, with William Clark and 30 others, crossed America in 1804 and 1805 all the way to the mouth of the Columbia River on the west coast. The Lewis and Clark expedition reached the Great Falls on June 13, 1805. Great Falls is now a town in Montana near the Falls. This had been charged with President Jefferson to keep a journal of everything he saw and did. And it is one of the world's great diaries, ranking along with Samuel Peeps and James Boswell's diaries. Here are several sentences that Lewis wrote. And please remember, when he's writing this, he's sitting on a log somewhere, writing with a quill pen, and this is more than two centuries ago, describing him coming across the Great Falls. My ears were saluted with the agreeable sound of a fall of water. And advancing a little further, I saw the spray arise above the plane, like a column of smoke, which would frequently disappear again in an instant, caused, I presume, by the wind which blew pretty hard from the southwest. I did not, however, lose my direction to this point which soon began to make a roaring too tremendous to be mistaken for any cause short of the great falls of a Missouri. I hurried down the hill which was about 200 feet high and difficult to access, to gaze on this sublimely grand spectacle. The falls form into a perfect white foam which assumes a thousand forms in a moment, sometimes flying up in jets of sparkling foam to the height of 15 or 20 feet, and are scarcely formed before large rolling bodies of the same beaten and foaming water is thrown over and conceals them. In short, the rock seemed to be most happily fixed to present a sheet of the widest beaten froth for 200 yards in length and about 80 feet perpendicular. The water, after descending, strikes against the abutment before mentioned, before mentioned, for that on which I stand seems to reverberate and being met by the most impetuous current, they roll and swell in half-formed billows of great height which rise and again disappear in an instant. The abutment of rocks defends a handsome little bottom of about three acres which is diversified and agreeably shaded with some cottonwood trees. In the lower extremity of the bottom there is a very thick grove of the same kind of trees which are small, in this wood there are several Indian lodges formed with sticks, from the reflection of the sun on the spray or mist which arises from these falls, there is a beautiful rainbow produced which adds not a little to the beauty of this majestically grand scenery. This has been from Mary Weather Lewis's journal written during his exploration of America, accompanied by William Clark and Sakajuya and her baby, Lewis must have been a born writer. Not too many episodes ago I spoke about a novel's opening sentences. It's such an important topic I'd like to do so again. A great opening sentence or two creates tension and they do so in the very first words of the novel. A literary agent Donald Moss says, "There is, in any great opening line, a mini-conflict or tension that is strong enough to carry the reader to the next step in the narrative." That's Donald Moss. Something, usually something bad, is about to happen, evident in the novel's first sentence or the first couple of sentences. The authors of strong first sentences didn't wait until the end of the first page or the end of the first chapter to put tension in place, but rather did so before the reader could take a breath. These first sentences propel the reader farther into the story. New writers often want to set up things, set up things before putting the story in motion. New writers want to establish the status quo, the existing state of affairs, to clearly show how things are before the story's changes begin. It's a mistake. The first sentence, the first two or three sentences should make the reader ask, "What is going to happen next?" I'd like to have some fun with this. I'm going to read several excellent first sentences from Good Writers. Some of these sentences are famous. Then I'd like to show how a lesser writer would write the same first opening. Here are opening first sentences, sometimes one sentence, sometimes two famous novels. Notice that they all ask a question and the question puts tension into the sentence, into the story right away, right before the first punctuation. Here are the first two sentences of C.S. Lewis's wonderful, the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe. Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. This story is about something that happened to them when they were sent away from London during the war because of the air raids. That's C.S. Lewis. These sentences are loaded. Where are they being sent to? What will happen? Here is my inert version. Once there were four children, and they lived in London. It's the status quo. Nothing moves. No questions are asked. What a big difference. Here are the first two sentences of Albert Camus, the outsider. Mother died today, or maybe yesterday. I can't be sure. That's Albert Camus. These sentences ask, "Why can't he be sure?" His mother died, and he isn't sure. Here's my inert version. Mother died today at age 93. My sister called to inform me. This is so bad I laughed when I wrote it. No question is being asked by the writer. Here is the first sentence of the secret history by Donna Tarte. This snow in the mountains was melting, and bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation. That's Donna Tarte in the secret history. The reader asks, "Why are they in the mountains? How wasn't the gravity of their situation clear? Who's bunny? What's going on?" The reader has to keep reading to find out. As my version, please try not to yawn, the snow in the mountains was melting. This was our fourth year walking this trail every year on this exact date. My version sounds like a diary entry, and a dull diary at that. Mine is a status quo statement coupled with backstory. If you listen to my podcasts and still feel you need a boost, I've made something different. I've created a 20 episode master class on fiction writing, a start to finish course covering plot, characters, scenes, and sentence level craft. Each episode is focused and about 30 minutes. The full class, all 20 episodes, is available now for a one-time price of $49. If you want structured concise guidance, click the "By the Master Class" link in the show notes to get started. Here is Francis Hodgson Burnett in the secret garden, the first sentence. When Mary Lennox was sent to Missilthweight Manor to live with her uncle, everybody said she was the most disagreeable looking child ever seen. That's from the secret garden. The reader asks, "Why was Mary sent to Missilthweight Manor to live with her uncle? Why is Mary so sour?" The reader thinks something is going to happen to Mary, and maybe she won't be so sour later, I'll keep reading. Here's my flat version. Mary Lennox stopped at the florist's shop on her way to the train station. That's another dull diary entry. The reader asks, "So what?" Here is the first line of Herzog, by Saul Bellow. If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me," thought Moses Herzog. Bellow's big question for the reader, the question that launches the reader into the rest of the story is, "Why is Herzog being crazy, okay with him or with anybody? What's going on?" Here's my flat version, kindly don't laugh. Herzog pulled the bottle of mustard from the refrigerator. A new writer might begin the story this way because the new writer wants to make sure we readers know who Herzog is and where he is, and the new writer wants to show a couple pieces of furniture in his apartment. Here's the first sentence of Paul Oster's "City of Glass." It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end, asking for someone he was not. Once Paul Oster, what could be more mysterious and spooky in the dead of night? Not much is spookier, I've got to read farther. Here's my version. When the phone rang, Daniel grabbed it and said, "Hello." Holy cow, that's so terrible. Here's the opening sentence from Guntered Glasses, "The tin drum." Granted, "I am an inmate of a mental hospital. My keeper is watching me. He never lets me out of his sight. There's a people in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me." This sentence filled with questions. Why is he in the mental hospital? Has he done something so bad that a guard has to watch him all the time? What did he do? The reader is launched into the story with his sentence. Here's my version. The cot's mattress was thin, and the room smelled of pine-sol. Here the writer wants to place the reader in the room, getting everything set up and squared away first. It's a mistake. And here is Gabriel Garcia Marquez's famous first sentence in 100 years of solitude. Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Arelliano Bundia was to remember the distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. A man facing a firing squad in the first sentence of the novel, the reader simply must keep reading. Here's my version. Raised of light through the window, struck the man's eyes and woke him up. Oh boy, a novel that begins with someone waking up is off to a week-week start. Everybody wakes up every morning. Here's another famous first sentence. This is from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and it's famous. It was a pleasure to burn. The question, what's burning? Why? Why is it a pleasure? What's happening? Here's my inert version, Guy Montagg found a book of matches in his trouser pockets, half of them gone because of his cigarette habit. The reader thinks, so what? There must be something more interesting on this bookstore's shelf. I'm going to put this one down and go to something else. Here's the first sentence of the old man in the sea by Ernest Hemingway. He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream, and he had gone 84 days now without taking a fish. That's Ernest Hemingway. The reader wants to know why in the world would this old man fish day after day without ever catching anything? And the reader knows that the sea often punishes people. The reader thinks, I've got to read farther. Here's my dead-on-arrival version. The old man attached a worm to the hook at the end of his fishing line. Pardon me, I nodded off when I wrote that sentence. Here's the last one, and this is from Carson McCullough's. The heart is a lonely hunter. In the town, there were two mutes, and they were always together. That's from the heart is a lonely hunter. Why is this such a good sentence? Why are we, the reader, following along with two mutes? Who even calls anyone a mute? Why are they together and what do they up to? Here's my version. Two fellows walked along the sidewalk passing a pharmacy's window. Oof, I laughed here too. The new writer wants to get the setting straight. Small town sidewalks, sunny day, the smell of auto-exhaust. The new writer wants to make sure the reader knows where everybody is. And that's a mistake. Notice the similarity in these opening sentences, the real versions, not mine. All successful stories are about change. A new writer often wants to set up the scene before putting the story in motion. The new writer wants to clearly show the state of things before the story's changes begin. The new writer places everyone in position and describes the characters in the setting and comments on the weather, and it's all a mistake. Save this stuff for later. The first sentence should make the reader ask what in the world is going to happen next. Week opening sentences suffer from inertia. They don't push the reader forward to the next sentence. There's no "come hither" look to them. The opening sentences from these masters all have a "come hither" look. Let's see what will happen. My versions are like a plate on a table. Nothing's going on. The reader asks, "So what?" A story's first sentence is an art. It's a fun art. It's fun work. We should, with our first sentence or two, propel the reader into our story. The reader should ask, "What's next?" Our setting is the time and location of our story. The setting anchors our characters to the ground. Describing a setting is where an author can strut his stuff, to show his writing chops, and a good way for us to get better is to read good prose to see how these good writers do it. Here are three exceptional setting descriptions from master writers. Let's see how they do it. The first is from Philip Roth's novel, "American Pastoral." He's describing a restaurant. This is Philip Roth. For instance, one of those old Italian restaurants tucked into the Midtown West Side Streets, between Madison Square Garden and the Plaza. Small restaurants, three tables wide and four chandeliers deep, with decor and menus that have changed hardly at all since before Arugula was discovered. There was a ballgame on the TV set by the small bar, and the customer every once in a while would get up to go look for a minute, ask the bartender the score, ask how maddenly was doing, and head back to his meal. The chairs were a pollstered in electric turquoise plastic. The floor was tiled and speckled salmon. One wall was mirrored. The chandeliers were fake brass, and for decorations there was a five-foot tall, bright red pepper grinder standing in one corner, like a geosimetty. Her balance in the opposite corner on a stand-like statuary stood a stout, gerobome, of barola. A table piled with jars of Vincent's marinara sauce was just a cross from the bowl of free after-dinner mints besides Mrs. Vincent's register. On the dessert cart was the Napoleon, the tiramisu, the layer cake, the apple tart, and the sugared strawberries, and behind our table on the wall were the autographed photographs of Sammy Davis Jr. Joe Neymeth, Liza Manelli, Kay Ballard, Jean Kelly, Jack Carter, Phil Rosuto, and Johnny and Joanna Carson. That's a wonderful description by Philip Roth. I'd love to go there and have something to eat. This is from Truman Capote's answered prayers. He's describing the location of a party. A seven-foot singleease in a crimson turbine and a white gelaba opened the iron gates. One entered a garden where Judas trees blossomed in lantern light, and the mesmeric ascent of tuberosus embroidered the air. We passed into a room paley alive with light filtered through ivory filigree screens. Faded banquets piled with brocaded pillows of a likened lemon and liver and scarlet luxury lined the walls. There were beautiful brass tables, shiny with candles, and sweating champagne buckets. The floors, thick with overlapping layers of rugs from the weavers of Thes and Marrakech, were like strange lakes of ancient intricate color. This Truman Capote, wow, is he working for the reader here? And this is from Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol." Once upon a time of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve, old scrooge sat busy in his counting house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather, foggy with all, and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warn them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. It had not been light all day, and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without that all over court was of the narrowest. The house's opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale. I like to think I become a better writer when I read wonderful writing. You too, I hope. Here Philip Roth, Truman Capote and Charles Dickens show us how to write our settings. The website Mental Floss has a list of famous authors' favorite reading. I'm always looking for something to read. Here is what the site says, Harry Potter's JK Rowling recommends. The Jane Austen novel Emma, and JK Rowling said, "Virginia wolf said of Austen, for a great writer she was the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness." Which is a fantastic line. You're drawn into this story and you come out the other end, and you know you've seen something great in action, but you can't see the pyrotechnics. There's nothing flashy. That's JK Rowling. I've not read Emma, but I'll download a copy to my Kindle. I received a nice message from Clara on the island of Jersey in the English Channel. And it brought back a memory. When I was in law school, I wagered my friend Lou that I would swim the English Channel by the time I was 40. I can't remember if I'd had a few beers when I made the wager, but it sounds like it. A couple of years later during a drive along the UK South Coast with Patti, I waited up to my calves in the English Channel. If the glaciers are indeed melting, I know where that water goes straight to the English Channel. It was shockingly cold. My legs have hardly recovered and it's been decades. I paid off my wager to Lou, which was a dinner for Lou and his wife at a good Seattle restaurant with Patti and me. He didn't rub it in too much. This is Jim Theran Seattle. I hope you have a good writing week. Please keep tapping those keys.