Wordplay

Let me begin this post by sharing a few posts from my writing journals:


“I hate beginnings. I know I’m going to have to go back and rewrite this one just as I did with A Man Called Outlaw, so I’m just slogging through, waiting to hit that sweet spot from where the story can just take off.”

“I feel right now like a blind man trying to work his way along the edge of a cliff.”

“I’m going to completely rewrite chapter number one; it needs a little jostling around, especially there at the end. And the dialogue, especially Marek’s, needs a big-time boost. And I want to portray Annan as more vulnerable, inwardly if not outwardly. This has been tough for me so far—and scary.”

“I’m having trouble with my beginning. (Surprise, surprise!)”

“Just for the record—I hate beginnings. I faced the unpleasant fact yesterday that I’m approaching this project from the wrong POV.”

“I was going to start this entry by saying how completely scared this story currently has me, how I’m a terrible writer, and how anything good I wrote in the past was a lucky mistake. But then I went back to read my entry from exactly this point in Behold, and I had to laugh: I said almost exactly the same thing there! That’s really, really, really good to know.”
"I think, perhaps, I'm crippling myself by worrying too much about action vs. narrative."

If all of writing was as difficult as the first 50 pages, I probably would have wimped out years ago and found myself a new vocation. (Something easy and safe—like being a Wal-Mart greeter or maybe the collector of the quarters from Laundromat machines.) Despite the fact that I already know every plot turn that will arrive in the pages to come, and that I’ve sketched my characters down to the most obscure detail, and that I’ve probably even imagined the have dozen splendid panegyrics that will appear on the glossy back cover—writing those first 50 pages is always a foray into dangerous and unknown territory.


It’s no wonder, of course, that beginnings are difficult when you consider their weight in the overall story. Beginnings must accomplish all of the following:

• Give the readers a reason to care about what happens to the characters.
• Plant an irresistible hook.
• Introduce overall tone (satiric, dramatic, etc.).
• Introduce setting (time and place), conflict, and possibly theme.

In short, the beginning of every story is rather like a résumé. You flaunt your talents and skills and hope the reader finds what he’s looking for. Otherwise, you’re never going to make it off the bookstore shelf.


No problem, you say. I’ve got great characters and a killer plot. All I have to do is start writing. Unfortunately, I’ve never met anyone who actually could just do that, although I suppose it’s reasonable to suppose that the planet does possess a few such blessed writers. All I know is I’m not one of them. For me, as for the majority of novelists no matter their skill levels, beginnings are a tight-rope act. And it’s a long fall to the bottom if you miss your step.


So how, pray tell, does one go about avoiding that fatal misstep? Well, you write and you rewrite. And then you repeat. Not what you were hoping to hear? Me neither. So in the interest of keeping us both happy, allow me to throw out a few helpful suggestions regarding what makes a beginning a success.


Character. Beginnings are all about character. If the reader doesn’t find your character interesting, why should he stick around to follow this same boring character through the next 300 pages, no matter how brilliant your final plot twist may be? Ultimately, all people read fiction because of character. They aren’t going to waste their time on characters that aren’t brimming with life—and neither should we as writers. From the very first page, we have to give the readers a character they won’t be able to get out of their heads. But more important than just imbuing our cast with scintillating personalities and rapid-fire wit (although never underestimate either of these), is giving the reader a reason to care about the characters.


Young authors are often encouraged to begin with action. Apparently, the theory is that if you throw an obvious protagonist into a harrowing situation, the reader will love him just because he’s in trouble. Not so. Someone in trouble may elicit a sympathetic response from me on a surface level. But to make me really be concerned about what happens to this person I first have to care about him.


Let’s say we pick up a story that begins in the middle of a fistfight. Probably we will be at least marginally interested in what the fight is about. But we aren’t going to particularly care about who wins the fight unless we care about one of contestants. Beginning the story with a fistfight is definitely a good idea (as opposed to, say, opening with the protagonist warming up before the fight), but unless you throw in a reason to make the reader care, you’re probably sunk.
For years, I struggled with the idea of adding narrative to my openings. The “call to action,” as it were, became a major stumbling block for me. My gut kept telling me that I needed to introduce a character, not an event. I fought the idea, thinking that I’d lose the reader’s attention if I slowed down long enough to sketch a few important details about the protagonist. But it dawned on me, as I pondered this question, that I had never been turned off by a few artfully placed paragraphs of narrative in a beginning’s opening. In fact, it was the straight action openings that completely turned me off.


Don’t get me wrong: action (aka conflict) and suspense is the heart of any story and definitely an essential factor in a successful beginning. But, without a strong character introduction, they aren’t going to be worth very much by themselves.


I am adamant that this one facet of the beginning is the single most important factor, not just in opening a story, but in setting the tone for the entirety of the tale to follow. So what’s the best way to introduce this dazzling character of yours without overloading the reader with unnecessary facts? Following is a very non-exclusive list of suggestions that can be used, in any order and any combination,

• Name the character. Give the reader a name to build on. It’s easier to sucker someone into caring for a character when we know his name. Obviously, this isn’t a hard and fast rule, since numerous first-person narratives don’t name their characters outright (such as Daphne du Maurier’s classic Rebecca, in which the main character is never named at all).
• Show the character in a “classic moment.” If possible, use the opening scene to exemplify a part of the character’s personality which will play a vital role later on. For instance, in Dreamers Come, my work-in-progress, I introduce my character right after he has thrown himself rashly into a dangerous situation in order to rescue a little girl.
• Exemplify attitude. Show the reader, through your character’s words, actions, and internal narrative, how he views the world. Is he a cynic? An idealist? How does he view the conflict on which the story has opened?

Granted, character is only half of the delicate balancing act presented in a story’s beginning. A good character in a boring story is still going to be about as flat as yesterday’s soda. But if you can master the art of character introduction, you’ve already licked three-quarters of the battle.

Story by K.M. Weiland

Tags: beginnings , behold the dawn , Characters , dreamers come , the rain still falls