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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A notebook for fiction writers and aspiring novelists. One editor’s perspective.

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Exploring your Inciting Incident
Also: How to jump-start creativity.

I’ve previously mentioned that finishing one’s novel is pretty damn important. So important, it’s my very own (previously stated and completely subjective) Rule #1. However, I’m aware that Rule #1 presumes that a writer already has a potential, novel-length idea in mind—and both the technical knowledge and self-confidence to begin crafted the tale exactly as envisioned.

But for many novice and/or hesitant fiction writers, that’s not always the case. Rule #1 loses a significant amount of value if you lack the experience, insight and/or courage to begin jotting down that first line.

And yeah, it takes a great deal of courage to begin a novel.

Before one even considers writing that first line, perhaps ponder your inciting incident. A misconception that some newbie writers have is assuming that “writing a novel” begins with tentatively scribbling out that first line on the first page of the first chapter. But writing a story typically begins with a vague or promising idea—one that may pester you for hours, days, weeks or even years, buzzing around your brain like an angry mosquito. Often (not always but often) this incomplete but essential What if…? premise will become either the beginning, or the crux, of your story—a simple idea that puts into motion all circumstances and events that will eventually produce a completed novel. This originating concept—whether a cause or effect, a grandiose event or random occurrence, conflict or dare, even a character’s Eureka! moment—will become inciting incident.

Or think of it this way: Your inciting incident is the necessary spark that will ignite the remainder of the story. If you were to visualize your novel’s plot (story line) as a string of exploding firecrackers, the inciting incident is you, the writer, lighting the fuse with a match. You’re telling readers that something different—wonderful or romantic or terrifying or mysterious or silly or mind-blowing—is about to happen.

For instance: What if a skinny third-grader named Johnny is beaten up by several sumo-sized fifth graders? That’s an inciting incident. Johnny begins to formulate a cunningly sophisticated, yet bloodless, idea for revenge and eventually sets the plan in motion. Either he succeeds or fails miserably. Maybe Johnny fails but learns other important lessons about friendship or love or the downside of revenge. That’s the plot.

Or: What if a nuclear power plant is struck by a massive lightning bolt in the dead of night? An inciting incident, right? Those few late-shift engineers on duty wake from a stunned stupor and suddenly realize they’re telepathic. How do they adapt to their lives in the new normal? Do they become social outcasts? Do they save the world from some secret government conspiracy? Or just always win at poker? The moment those engineers awaken and realize what’s happened to them, your story will begin to produce an endless series of What if…? scenarios, until you decide upon a viable story-line and an ultimately satisfying conclusion.

One’s inciting incident can either be prominently or discreetly plot-relevant. Your first line or opening scene need not directly relate to your story or its outcome. (See Writing That First Line). Maybe you want to introduce a character or two. Or establish a definitive time and place to better ground readers in your fictional realm. However, I do suggest that one’s inciting incident—whether revealed on Page 1 or as distant as the second or third chapter—provides a direct link to your primary plot. (It’s inciting, after all.) So provide the necessary correlation.

I realize that many writers may be unsure or only vaguely aware of where the plot’s heading when they begin writing. A solid plot might not be evident for a chapter or two. Even those with a plot in mind may not know the book’s ending for another 100 pages or so. Me? I usually have no idea how or where my book might end until I’m midway through the story. I may have a vague concept, or several potential options to choose from—but rarely is my Act III a certainty.

Some writers cobble together a plot as they write, relying on intuition and Outlining. Others don’t really care at this point (those adventurous pantsers among us. Although sooner or later, to avoid encroaching insanity, even pantsers will have to structure a definitive ending, if only inside their heads before they write that last page).

Also note that in character-driven stories (as opposed to plot-driven narratives) a central plot—or series of plots—may be little more than an afterthought. It’s the drama of human emotion that drives the book, not any particular event (an alien encounter or zombie invasion, or a murder or finding true love) that befalls a character. There may be far fewer external events and far more internal growth. So one’s inciting incident may simply be a decision to hike through the wilderness or stop for a cup of coffee at a local cafe—only to discover what might happen next. Drama is, of course, a necessary ingredient in fiction, but in a character-driven novel, the story’s outcome need not be directly connected to any specific opening. (See Character Development.)

One final thought about your inciting incident. While the incident itself need not be grandiose or imposing—lightning need not crash, thunder need not rumble—think of your inciting incident as whatever gets your protagonist off his/her butt and into motion. Without that inciting incident, your hero would likely sit passively in front of the TV, eating bon-bons, waiting for something to happen.

Your inciting incident is the something that happens.

Jump-Starting Creativity

Most fiction writers are overflowing with creativity. Daydreams and potential story ideas flood our waking hours, and sometimes fill our dreams as well. And yet our zest to actually begin writing a novel can freeze our thoughts and suck dry our best intentions.

So what happens when we’ve concocted a potentially marvelous character or two, but suddenly realize they’re all dressed up with nowhere to go? Or perhaps we’ve visualized an impressively complex realm or a dazzling location—cabaret-rich Paris in the 1920s, or a colony on one of Jupiter’s many moons, or an alt-reality where dragons rule the skies and magic permeates everyday life. How to populate such a potentially fertile environment with a suitably engaging story? So many possibilities, so few brain cells!

If you don’t have a basic plot in mind, don’t overthink your options just yet. My suggestion is to start with a simple, basic concept… and see where that might take you. For the moment, you’re just looking for that aforementioned inciting incident.

For instance, let’s say that we’ve envisioned a medieval type fantasy, filled with warring castles and jousting knights, with dragons and fair maidens and evil wizards and such.

A young knight sits on his trusty stead, observing the castle’s yawning gates. Let’s call him Sir Navnløs. His horse’s name is, dunno—Pepper. (We’re just making stuff up at the moment…because that’s how novels are born.) Sir Navnløs has never ventured this far from his village, and cautiously ponders the overwhelming size of this newfound kingdom.

Okay, to make our story a bit more interesting, let’s make this is a mystical realm. Lord Navnløs knows a bit of magic, but his skills are sketchy. Sometimes his spells work. Sometimes they don’t. Which may lead to some interesting drama later in the story. We need not dwell on what sort of magic Lord Navnløs knows just yet—we’re teasing a bit of info for readers to ponder. We’re character-building, plumping up our young night’s personality with powers that might come in handy. (Think “Hodor.”)

So why is Sir Navnløs even here? Maybe he’s searching for something specific. Excitement and adventure? That’s kind of vague. What if he’s looking for his lost sister, or his long lost father, or even for his lost dog, Spoticus. Or perhaps bandits have sacked his his village, and Sir Navnløs is seeking revenge. Their tracks lead here, to this castle. So he’s gonna ask around.

He enters cautiously crosses the drawbridge, aware of archers watching him from the turrets… but then what? Maybe he begins to lead Pepper through the castle’s bailey (courtyard)—a great time to reveal some mondo scene-setting. Is it a ginormous castle? Old and rundown? Or magnificent in overwhelming splendor. Bustling, energetic? Is it raining? Sunshiny? Grey and misty? Is the young knight aware of tantalizing aromas? Are animals braying? Are the stone streets alive with the horns and drums brightly-clothed musicians? Or maybe not. Perhaps he confronts a more ominous scenario. Are bodies hanging, rotting, from the gallows? Ravens circling overhead or munching on the corpses? Are the streets suspiciously empty? Do fearful eyes observe him cautiously from doorways? (Whichever direction you proceed, you’ll immediately open up more options, more possibilities. S’up to you.)

Perhaps Lord Navnløs spots a fair maiden cowering in the street, being bullied or beaten by an angry young man in noble garb—a prince of some sort, Lord Navnløs deduces. He’s displeased by what he sees, but he’s a visitor here, and the nobleman is obviously his ‘better.’ What can he do without losing his head? Perhaps he has a sudden, clever idea. Maybe he…?

Or… what if Lord Navnløs is instead met inside the gate by a dozen knights on horseback, in full armor. They’re about to embark on a dangerous mission to slay a dragon, a cranky creature burning nearby villages and eating babies like popcorn. The captain of the guard gruffly insists that the young night join them in the hunt! And by the unrelenting snarl on the captain’s face, Lord Navnløs realizes he has little choice but to agree. Ready or not, adventure looms…!

In either scenario—the abused fair maiden or the potential bout of dragon slaying—that’s your inciting incident, a single occurrence (grandiose or subtle) that propels the remainder of your story forward. It’s the spark that ignites all the drama and passion, all the twists and turns, all the head-lopping, maiden-saving and dragon-slaying to come. Once a writer has an inciting incident in mind, the rest of the story should eventually fall into place. (An Outline at this point may be advised.) Or else it’s time for a little more contemplation, percolation and deliberation to concoct various additional What if…? scenarios sufficient to infuse your story with a constant stream of drama and excitement.
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