Blogger: Janet Kobobel Grant
“You had me at the first line.” Every author dreams of hearing readers proclaim that the first line of a book grabbed them by the lapels and wouldn’t let them go. Rest assured that not only readers but also agents and editors are suckers for a great first line.
Let’s look at some winners and some sleepers and see if we can figure out what makes one beginning work and another makes the reader work to wedge his or her way into the book.
Here’s one I like: “Anybody reared on Sesame Street remembers Oscar the Grouch. How can you not love a furry green monster that lives in a garbage can and breaks into a chorus of ‘I Love Trash’ at the drop of a hat? He would be the perfect mascot for this book, and, I suggest, for our lives. Every one of us has an Oscar within, eager to muck up our world. That’s what this book is all about.” –Bill Giovannetti’s How to Keep Your Inner Mess from Trashing Your Outer World.
Bill draws us into his book by providing us with an image that we resonate 
with from our childhood. And the author helps us to recall Oscar by engaging our senses with words like “furry,” “green” “breaks into a chorus of.” Then we’re told that Oscar resides within us–and that’s the problem the book discusses.
Just think about all the ways this opening draws us in and sets the stage for the rest of the book. We grasp that while the topic is heavy, the writing won’t be. This will be an easy book to read, even though the content might make us squirm.
Next up: “I was sitting in a taxi wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster.”
Jeannette Walls, in her masterful memoir The Glass Castle, made my eyes pop at this opening sentence. Turns out Jeannette is living a perfectly normal, successful like in New York City, but her parents are homeless in the same city–and happy to be so. This opening line, like a sharp knife, cuts to the quick of the struggle Jeannette faced in figuring out where to put all that parents, who viewed having children with the casualness of buying a banana, had put her through as a child–and as an adult.
Here’s the opening from one of my favorite novel, The Help, which depicts life for African American women in the South in the ’60s, when many of them worked in white folks’ homes, raising white babies, who would grow up to hate the black women who were like mothers to them as children.
“Mae Mobley was born on a early Sunday morning in August, 1960. A church baby we like to call it. Taking care a white babies, that’s what I do, along with all the cooking and the cleaning. I done raised seventeen kids in my lifetime. I know how to get them babies to sleep, stop crying, and go in the toilet bowl before they mamas even get out a bed in the morning.
“But I ain’t never seen a baby yell like Mae Mobley Leefolt. First day I walk in the door, there she be, red-hot and hollering with the colic, fighting that bottle like it’s a rotten turnip. Miss Leefolt, she look terrified a her own child. ‘What am I doing wrong? Why can’t I stop it?’
“It? That was my first hint: something is wrong with this situation.”
The author, Kathryn Stockett, has, in the matter of a few sentences, established the voice of one of the book’s protagonists, introduced us to her life, and shown us a conflict that weaves its way through the book–a child not loved by her mother but by the black “help.”
Now, here’s an opening that didn’t work especially well for me. It’s from Water for Elephants, a book that I came to adore, but it took time to grow on me.
“Only three people were left under the red and white awning of the grease joint: Grady, me, and the fry cook. Grady and I sat at a battered wooden table, each facing a burger on a dented tin plate. The cook was behind the counter, scraping his griddle with the edge of a spatula. He had turned off the fryer some time ago, but the odor of grease lingered.”
No tension exists in this opening paragraph. It sets the stage for life in the circus during the depression, but I’m not finding anything to hook me and pull me in.
The second paragraph begins to do that work, but I’m still not wowwed: “The rest of the midway–so recently writhing with people–was empty but for a handful of employees and a small group of men waiting to be led to the cooch tent. They glanced nervously from side to side, with hats pulled low and hands thrust deep in their pockets. They wouldn’t be disappointed: somewhere in the back Barbara and her ample charms awaited.”
Just as I evaluate openings in books I’m reading, so too I gauge how long it takes for me to be pulled into a manuscript. And I’m not alone in putting lots of weight on a project’s beginning; many a book lived or died based on its first page.
What openings have grabbed you by the lapels and insisted you read on? What books did you have to persist in getting involved with–or didn’t push you into the content fast enough so you abandoned reading them?
TWEETABLES
What makes a book’s first line work–or not? Click to tweet.
A book lives or dies based on its first page. Click to tweet.
How to write an eye-popping first line. Click to tweet.
Image courtesy of Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
“When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.”
*To Kill A Mockingbird is my all time favorite novel, so maybe that’s kind of a cheat for an example.
“Ree Dolly stood at break of day on her cold front steps and smelled coming flurries and saw meat.”
*Winter’s Bone, by Daniel Woodrell
* These two popped to mind immediately. I don’t really have a poor example as I’m a sucker for that first line, at the very least a first paragraph or two.
Love those first lines, Lara!
I’m not generally bothered by a slow beginning; I like to take time to get into a story. Some opening lines and paragraphs are indeed too ‘precious’ for me, like a girl who bats her eyes at an introduction rather than offering a firm and hearty handshake. (My wife calls me The Romantic. But she has an odd look on her face when she does.)
* There are two openings that stick in my memory, but unfortunately I have forgotten whence they came. They are reproduced as faithfully as possible.
1) “She looked into the mirror as she comber her lone straight hair, and knew she was not pretty.” (One hopes its memorability was unintentional.)
2) “Molly had known that motherhood would change her, but she never expected this; that seeing the husband she had prized as a romantic hero holding her newborn son would fill her with retching horror for the English mothers’ sons whom he’d made to bleed out their lives in the lanes of South Armagh.”
The first line/paragraph normally isn’t a deal maker or breaker for me either, Andrew. I like to give the story time to ramp up to action.
Actually, I’ve abandoned reading the Bible many times because of tedious content (Numbers), but that opening line in Genesis is still hard to beat.
*Great post, Janet.
Oh, Lara, I too have asked God “what’s the point?” over several passages. Sometimes the answer is in the symbolism. One time, God responded, “this is someone’s story.” I imagine a heavenly scene, some distant ancestor pointing to a verse and saying, “Here it is, my name in God’s book.”
How true, Shirlee, it is someone’s story and I imagine those who were called to write God’s word shared a few of the same struggles we writers face today, mainly rejection.
How about the opening lines to a war, from Neville Chamberlain?
* “This country is at war with Germany…we and France are today, in fulfillment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland, who is so bravely resisting this wicked attack on her people…Now may God bless you all. May He defend the right. It is the evil things we shall be fighting against: brute force, bad faith, injustice, oppression, and persecution. Against them I am certain that right will prevail.”
* The ferocious courtesy of the language does set both tone and character, both of Chamberlain and of the England whose customs and Empire would not long survive the war. These are the words of what the poet Kieth Douglas called “that gentle race of unicorns”, to whom decency and fair play truly meant something, and for whom honour had to be defended unto death.
* And this begs the question…have we in the West, as the carriers of a perhaps resented legacy of behaviour, lost something we might have been better served trying to preserve?
* Can we afford to ignore our heritage (I’m Asian, but I claim it!), and also fail to heed the cry of Aragorn before the Black Gate…”I bid you stand, Men of the West!”
Andrew, I haven’t been here for a week, and it’s refreshing to see you again. Trust life is angling the right direction. Thanks a lot for your kind words on this platform (and of course, your comment on my blog).
I still manage to get awed at the expanse and adept of thy knowledge.
Brandilyn Collins usually pulls me into her stories with the first line.
I’ll give my favorite authors more time to pull me into the story, but I do like an interesting start.
Thanks for sharing, Janet!
I don’t think there’s any tension in this one, but I always vote for Cry, the Beloved Country when it comes to opening lines:
“There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills. These hills are grass-covered and rolling, and they are lovely beyond any singing of it.”
I love that one too, Monica; Paton is really a master. In “Too Late The Phalarope”, the opening line is –
* “Perhaps I could have saved him, with only a word, two words out of my mouth. Perhaps I could have saved us all. But I never spoke them.”
I love first lines and paragraphs so much I get frustrated by them.
Favorites: ‘The office had no window…’ Thr3e by Ted Dekker.
Also, Redeeming Love, Adam, One Tuesday Morning, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Broker, and An Abundance of Katherine(s).
I just tweaked the first line of my WIP! 🙂
*I don’t think first lines influence me that much. But prologues make me smile. Sweet ones. I remember prologues.
*But one thing I noticed about these first lines you noted–they don’t really seem action-packed. Which is fine by me, too.
*”Scarlet O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.” Gone with the Wind 🙂
*”‘Twas time for his daughters to wed, Papa said.” –Love’s Reckoning, Laura Frantz. I love this book.
*”Killing Edward Stevens was beyond her proper ways. So instead, Claire Montgomery made tea.”–One Plus One Equals Trouble, Sondra Kraak. I just loved this book, too.
I hadn’t thought about how much action was associated with each of those first lines. But then, none of these books are action stories. Plus I think it takes the reader a while to settle in so having a bomb go off in line one could be, well, overpowering.
I enjoy a beautifully crafted beginning, but I’m more than willing to give an author several pages to hook me in. I suggest we read once more the beginning paragraphs of the literary classics our kids bring home from high school. Beautiful sentences painting memorable word pictures, but do they hurl you headlong into the action by the first period? Or even the first paragraph? Would they get through the door at an agency or publishing house today? Will anything we write to meet today’s commercial standards have their enduring impact?
*Do you ever wonder whether we are insulting the intelligence of our readers when we assume they have the attention span of a gnat and won’t read past the first paragraph before deciding to chuck a book aside as too boring? Or that even a few lines of description will make their eyes roll back into their heads as they struggle to stifle a yawn? Or that they couldn’t want a more complex story where more than two characters think deep thoughts and the reader is actually allowed into their heads?
As Shelli pointed out, I didn’t pick openings lines that are action-packed. I hadn’t realized that, but I’m not generally drawn into a book that splays action all over the beginning like paint tossed onto a wall.
But it is true that television and movies have taught us to expect the story’s major conflict to be introduced early. We’ve developed a different sense of rhythm than those who lived in quieter times.
Attention span of a gnat! I wonder if publishers are assuming the same thing. Hooking a reader’s attention with that first line, paragraph, page and a great description on the book’s cover is important, but ultimately the story itself must carry the reader through to the end.
*I’ll never tire of reading the classics from mine and my children’s youth. And you’re right Carol, I wonder how many would be published today, especially the longer picture books.
Interesting point, Carol, about underestimating the intelligence of readers. I have two thoughts (all I am allowed for the day, else my brain will seize.)
* Does not the fact that a person will pick up a book when given so many other avenues of entertainment bespeak a certain sophistication we’d be loath to ignore?
* Is this partly a function of a ‘professional filter’; to agents and editors time is a commodity, and their professional reading has to pay quick dividends. Thus, the oft-heard “if it doesn’t grab me in the first paragraphs, it’s history”. Is there any research to indicate that lay readers feel this way?
Mrs. Grant, I wonder if I may be permitted a question?
In many cultures, including mine, it is considered quite rude to come ‘to the heart of the matter’ quickly. While I realize that you generally represent authors who write for an American audience, it does seem to me that setting immediate dramatic tension may give an inauthentic note if the storyline is imbued with an extra-cultural ambience.
I would be curious if you have ever encountered this, and to learn how you have handled it.
A slower paced beginning but lovely writing that speaks eloquently in setting the story’s ambience appeals to readers as well as setting up the conflict at the very beginning does. But I think, regardless of culture, all of us are trained by television and film for at least a kernel of the conflict to be introduced early on.
One example of a quiet beginning is The Space Between Us by Thrity Umrigar: “The thin woman in the green sari stood on the slippery rocks and gazed at the dark waters around her.” This story, which was informed by Thrity’s being born and raised in India, has a quiet tone, but beneath it a variety of passions and heartbreak writhe vigorously. By the way, in the opening of the story, the woman is about to commit suicide. The reader doesn’t know that until the end of the book.
I suppose one should select the bait to match the desired catch. It’s the unbaited hook which fails. My favorite is: “Martel was angry. He did not even adjust his blood away from anger.” But this was a rather obscure work.
Robert, the metaphor about bait, a hook, and the catch is apt. Indeed, what sort of reader is the writer attempting to haul in to the boat…er, book. Love the opening two sentences you shared. What’s the book?
Scanners Live in Vain, the first published work by Cordwainer Smith (Paul Linebarger). He’s my favorite scifi writer.
I’ve been trying to get here and comment all day, but summer=boys out of school, which means crazy schedules. 🙂
*I always appreciate posts about first lines. It’s fun to read them and read about them to see what works and doesn’t. I had fun reading the lines others have posted in the comments. 🙂
*I think Susan May Warren is a master at creating first lines for her books.
*As for lines that have caught me and kept me reading, here are a couple: The first one is from Blue Moon Bay, by Lisa Wingate: “s it possible for nine months and three days of your life to haunt you forever?”
*Another one is from The Atonement Child, by Francine Rivers: “”It was on a cold January night when the unthinkable, unpardonable happened.” This book is one of my favorites, and the line Is perfect for setting the mood of this opening scene. 🙂
“The summer I turned thirteen, I thought I’d killed a man.” Jennifer Valent, Fireflies in December.
“There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.” C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
This has been one of my favorite first sentences since elementary school. Lewis packs so much into his deceptively simple set of thirteen words. We meet a boy with a horrible name, and apparently a horrible character. Already, we dislike him, and want to know why. But there’s a hint of possible redemption, too, in that little “almost” Lewis inserts into his opening line.
Best first line ever. Now that I’m scriptwriting again I’m trying to come up with ANYTHING within a century of being that good.
Darby, I’m glad to find a fellow fan of that sentence. Enjoy the hunt for your own glorious lines.
Kirsten, thanks for reminding us of this glorious line and doing a bit of dissecting of it. Makes me appreciate it all over again.
Janet, I’m not sure I’ll ever top the first line of Jim Bell’s TRY DARKNESS: “Get out of my house,” the nun said, and hit me in the mouth.
Than again, you might ask Rachelle if she remembers this one: Things were going fine until the miracle fouled them up.
First lines are important. Thanks for the reminder.
That Jim Bell and his wry humor…
You certainly had my attention with the miracle line.
I love the opening of “Dawn Treader”, too! But also these:
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” (Jane Eyre)
“In a hole in the ground lived a hobbit.” (the Hobbit, of course!)
And I agree about Alan Paton, too. That’s one of the most beautiful openings I’ve ever read. Then there’s this one:
Not everybody knows how I killed old Phillip Mathers, smashing his jaw in with a spade; but first it is better to speak of my friendship with John Divney because it was he who first knocked old Mathers down by giving him a great blow in the neck with a special bicycle-pump which he manufactured himself out of a hollow iron bar.
– The Third Policeman, Flann O’Brien
Those are three very different openings to three very different books. I love how they showcase the voice of each.
Sorry – two more, from two more favorite books:
“Brotehr Francis Gerard of Utah might never have discovered the blessed documents, had it not been for the pilgrim with girded loins who appeared during the young novice’s Lenten fast in the desert. (A Canticle for Liebowitz, Walter M. Miller, Junior
“I am old now, and have not much to fear from the anger of gods.” (Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis)
Great beginnings, Janet. One book that hooked me from the get-go was Lynne Marshall’s One For the Road, which begins:
“Reese, if you weren’t dead, I swear, I’d kill you!”
D’Anne Palmer stomped from her mosquito-infested campsite toward the Laundromat. “Damn it!” she cursed, smacking a super-sized, bloodsucking pest feasting on her neck.
Was this her fault? Had Reese tried to tell her?
A month and a half ago, unable to comprehend the truth, she’d curled into a ball and cried for two weeks straight. Next came the zombie stage. Now, she’d moved on to anger, latched onto it with fury, and couldn’t seem to let go.-
Another author who grabs me is Vonnie Davis
Reese was dead, and she was broke and stranded outside of Nashville in a campground along the Cumberland River.
I love the sassy voice of that character.