A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.
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Writing that first line.
One’s first line(s) need not be plot specific, nor allude to any sort of inciting incident. However, the opening of any story should be, must be, profound. Poignant. Riveting. Either in-your-face riveting or very subtly so. Teasing. Provocative. Your opening’s sole intent is to immediately immerse readers in whatever impending story you’re about to present. Personally, I often fool around with my opening, tweaking, nudging or even re-writing that damn sentence over and over, even after I’ve finished several drafts. And yet, somehow, I eventually find the perfect (for me) expression.
How important is your first line? Important enough to be Rule #2: Make your story’s first line enticing enough to immediately hook readers. (The only line as important is your story’s last line. So the same rule apply.)
While many novice writers believe — or in their exuberance to immediately dive into the heart of their story, insist — that their first lines abjectly define a plot, just know that a writer does have sufficient wiggle room to begin defining a character or to world/realm build first. And while: The giant meteor hurled toward the distant blue-green speck known as planet Earth. might indeed be an appropriate opener, one has the potential to muse alternatives, providing options (introducing an interesting character, or an innovative new realm, for instance) that convey excitement — a reason for readers to want to turn the page.
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I’ve gathered 25 fictional first lines (and corresponding 2nd lines, if appropriate) from previously published authors. I believe these openers grab readers exceptionally well. Most of these books were or are hugely successful, but widely vary in substance, tonality and mood. These intros provide the necessary allure (whether wit, pathos, humor, suspense or a teasing overview) to read on. Some will hint of an impending inciting incident. Others are far more opaque or elusive. So, in chronological order:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” — Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen. (1813)
“It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered, before the adverse hosts could meet.” — The Last of the Mohicans. James Fenimore Cooper. (1826)
Charles Dickens’ 1859 classic, A Tale of Two Cities, is already (in)famous for its breathless prose, and the book’s familiar first line would be torn apart by today’s editors (or at least separated into several distinct sentences). And yet, Dickens’ emotional perception of Victorian-era London helped launch the book into Wikipedia’s Top 5 Best-Selling Novels of All Time list:
. . . . It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
In War of the Worlds, H. G. Wells’ opener is rather amazing, given the book’s pub date. Orwell’s first line foreshadows his entire plot, and even hints at the book’s brilliant conclusion.
. . . .No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. — War of the Worlds. H. G. Wells. (1898)
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. — The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald. (1925)
Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm, as the Tarletin twins were. — Gone With The Wind. Margaret Mitchell. (1936)
In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. — The Hobbit. J.R.R. Tolkien. (1937)
In the corner of a first class smoking carriage, Mr. Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through the political news in The Times. — And Then There Were None. Agatha Christie. (1939)
. . . . An interesting aside, the British version of Christie’s book was first titled Ten Little N – – – – – – . (Yup, the infamous N-word; and the title of a familiar children’s nursery rhyme at the time. The rhyme’s plot factored prominently into Christie’s story.) In America, the title was changed to Ten Little Indians and ultimately became known as And Then There Were None. The book remains one of the best-sellers of all time.
It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. 1984. George Orwell. (1948).
If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. — The Catcher in the Rye, J. D. Salinger (1951)
It was a pleasure to burn. — Fahrenheit 451. Ray Bradbury. (1953)
In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Brooklyn. This was in 1947, and one of the pleasant features of that summer which I so vividly remember was the weather, which was sunny and mild, flower-fragrant, almost as if the days had been arrested in a seemingly perpetual springtime. — Sophie’s Choice. William Styron. (1960)
The Island of Gont, a single mountain that lifts its peak a mile above the storm-racked Northeast Sea, is a land famous for wizards. — The Wizard of Earthsea. Ursula K. Le Guin. (1968)
All this happened, more or less. The war parts, anyway, are pretty much true. — Slaughterhouse-Five. Kurt Vonnegut. (1969)
When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. — The Last Good Kiss. James Crumley. (1978)
The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. — Neuromancer. William Gibson. (1984) This is the novel, btw, that coined the term Cyberspace.
The night Vincent was shot he saw it coming. — Glitz. Elmore Leonard. (1985)
Maybe I shouldn’t have given the guy who pumped my stomach my phone number, but who cares? My life is over anyway. — Postcards from the Edge. Carrie Fischer. (1987)
I have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since I saw a tractor tire blow up and throw Newt Hardbine’s father over the top of the Standard Oil sign. — The Bean Trees. Barbara Kingsolver. (1988)
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. — Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. J.K. Rowling. (1997)
At the first gesture of morning, flies began stirring. Inman’s eyes and the long wound at his neck drew them, and the sound of their wings and the touch of their feet were soon more potent than a yardful of roosters in rousing a man to wake. — Cold Mountain. Charles Frazier. (1997)
They shoot the white girl first. With the others, they take their time. — Paradise. Toni Morrison. (1998)
The creature watched and waited. — The Past is Never. Tiffany Quay Tyson (2006)
Micky and the naked blonde are giggling in the Jacuzzi. — On The Rocks. Me! Me! This one’s mine! (2012) …because I’m not above a little self-promotion (and I really like the line!).
I was born a colored man and don’t you forget it. But I lived as a colored woman for seventeen years. — The Good Lord Bird. James McBride. (2017)
We should have known the end was near. How could we not have known? — How Beautiful We Were. Imbolo Mbue. (2021)
Where to Start:
What Not to Worry About (Yet)
So begin… but do so with forethought and with a profound sense of purpose, of teasing or mystifying or exciting the reader. I’m aware that staring at a blank page, and glancing toward that distant finish line some 300 or 400 pages in the future, can produce a wee bit of anxiety. Of uncertainty. The common, cliché-ish and yet ultimately sage advice is to begin at the beginning. Although I admit the adage isn’t entirely helpful. Where to begin is often a writer’s state of mind at any particular moment. And where exactly to begin may not even occur to you until you’ve finished a draft or two, and know far better about who your characters are, and where they’re going. (Because it’s okay to return to Page 1 and tweak or change your premise at any time.)
My best advice is, for the moment, don’t sweat it. Don’t sit for hours, or days, petrified into inertia by worrying about precision or fretting about perfection. Just begin writing where you think your story might begin. My own first few pages will rarely remain intact, and I’ll often rewrite my opening several times before I’m satisfied. I’ve actually shuffled around entire scenes and even a few chapters to better fit my now-completed story arc.
Because that’s what first drafts are for. A writer’s constantly honing pages, re-evaluating, reconsidering. Remember that your first few drafts will be sloppy, incomplete, and often inarticulate works in progress. A first draft (or outline) is like an artist’s sketch pad, full of literary doodles and unanswered questions. If you find yourself looking intently for typos or inconsistencies in your first draft, purple prose or incomplete thoughts, you’re doing it wrong. A typical first draft is a hot mess. It’s the nature of the beast. (Also see First Drafts.)
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