Winning a monkey on the turn of a knave
A few weeks back, when Covid first struck, we ran a lockdown-friendly 14-day free membership offer. You could sign up for free and, if you liked it (and were wise and decisive), you could convert to a full membership. As an extra little sprinkle of stardust, we offered the converters a quick review of their opening pages.
That’s always an interesting exercise, reminding one of the astonishing breadth of fiction. And one of the opening pages that floated my way – this one from a writer called Karen – opened with this brilliant opening phrase (referring, by the way, to a sack of tiny monkeys):
Won from a fellow tar on the turn of a knave …
You know instantly that you’re in the hands of an accomplished writer there, with poetry and vigour right there in the first dozen or so words. You also recognise that the voice is going to be distinctive, which it duly is. Here are some other lovely bits from Karen’s first page:
Earl reminded him sharply with a blow from his fist. The old dog would reap a bright forget-me-not on his temple as a reprimand.
And what about this:
Experience had taught him that encouragement in the softest of tones invariably succeeded in calming a frightened creature. Horse, woman, whatever.
Part of the joy of these openings is the delicious realisation that we are about to witness a voice, and a character, that lies several standard deviations away from normal. You might think of published books like Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything Is Illuminated:
My legal name is Alexander Perchov. But all of my many friends dub me Alex, because that is a more flaccid-to-utter version of my legal name. My mother dubs me Alex-stop-spleening-me!, because I am always spleening her.
That first sentence lulls you into a sense of security. Then my ‘friends dub me Alex’ catches you out and forces you to pay close attention to what’s coming. And then – bim-a-bam-bosh – you get your reward with the delightfully barmy phrase ‘a more flaccid-to-utter version…’.
We’re just two sentences into the book and, if you were browsing in a bookstore, you’ve already made up your mind to make the purchase.
Or how about this:
Marsh is not swamp. Marsh is a space of light, where grass grows in water, and water flows into the sky.
That’s the opening of Where the Crawdads Sing and it combines poetry with an immediately distinctive presence.
In all these cases, the book announces itself with something distinctive, something that rejoices in language, something that doesn’t sound anything like the book next to it in the shop or online.
And that sort of sounds like a recipe for success: invent something distinctive and glittery for the first page. Get the sale. Then tell the story.
Except that to succeed, to really succeed, the distinctive thing you offer has to be baked into the story at the very deepest level. The Crawdads opening makes a promise about place and mood that the entire book lives up to. The Safran Foer opening likewise makes a big, bold splashy promise that the book also amply lives up to. (That book is multi-voiced, so there are multiple promises, in fact.)
So maybe the right way to think about these distinctive voices is that they perfectly align everything about the book. Genre, mood, setting, character. Those things line up so that the reader ends up reading some perfectly presented whole. It feels impossible to detach any one part of the book, so completely is everything integrated.
And that in turn means: no cheating. No shortcuts.
A flashy opening sentence or vignette is fine, but if the flash dissolves into something without a coherent original vision, you haven’t necessarily gained yourself much.
That kind of originality is hard to do. It took me five novels and nine or more books before I’d really nailed it. And of course, you can be a highly competent writer writing highly competent books without the bolt of inspiration that elevates your work to a whole different level. You never quite know how an idea will turn out until you’ve written the damn book.
But this I think you can do: you can take what is original and distinctive in your voice or concept and lean into it. Encourage it. Invite it to display itself to the full. You need to stay disciplined, of course. (No sloppy phrases, no weak writing.) But even the act of inviting that voice to unfurl to its fullest extent is an act of bravery.
And your bravery will be rewarded. Always. If you keep the discipline, then always.
Find the heart of what you have, the most distinctive strand of your story-DNA and lean into that thing. Make the most of it. Put it at the very heart of what you do.
I’d love to see snippets of text from anyone who thinks they are writing with a distinctive voice or an unusual, strong-flavoured character. If you reckon your text qualifies, then let’s share.
Meanwhile – Stay safe and keep writing.
Oh yes. And I’m going to have something AMAZING to tell you about next week. Stay tuned for that.
Is your name flaccid-to-utter? Or are you just spleening me? If you’ve got something you want to share, then share it below. Nowhere like Townhouse for winning a monkey on the turn of a knave.
Here’s the beginning of my children’s chapter book, ages 5-8. I’d love some feedback
Secrets are for keeping, not for spilling. But this one jiggled and tingled inside so Seed knew she couldn’t hold it for long. She shifted on her perch in the quiet henhouse.
“What is it with you?” her best friend Gumball whispered. “You’re going to wake everyone if you don’t stop fidgeting.”
“I can’t sleep,” she whispered back. “I have to tell you something.”
Gumball squinted, trying to focus her tired eyes. “What is it? Tell me.”
Seed glanced around. The older hens were barely visible in the dark. They perched wing to wing all around her—too close for revealing secrets.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said.
But Gumball had gone back to sleep.
A square of half-light brightened the window. Rows of apple, peach, and plum trees filled the chicken yard. Seed craned her neck to see over the tall fence surrounding the yard. I wonder what’s out there, she thought.
I remember you saying somewhere else, Harry, that killer first lines weren’t absolutely essential (on the basis, I guess, that most readers do stick with it for a little longer than the very first line). But I guess that a killer first line does no harm whatsoever, especially if it’s followed by an even better second line.
For what it’s worth, here’s the first line of my novel – may not be a killer but I hope people don’t put it down straightaway:
It was the end of the day in an overheated office and Rick Dewhirst was about to tell the world something it needed to know.
Hi Harry
I’m finally into book two of my YA trilogy, ‘Ned’s Head – The Price To Pay’. I’d be interested in any opinions on my opening.
“Come, Englebert,” the dark-haired teenager shouted down to his friend, “there’s a perfect spot to rest here.”
Englebert Koch flicked his lank, blond hair away from his winter-grey eyes and squinted up at the athlete swinging a leg over the rocky ledge. The older they got, the scrawnier he felt whenever they were together. How fit and strong he looked – hanging by just his fingertips sometimes – finding hand and footholds where even the mountain goats wouldn’t go.
The weak sun was already descending to the lower peaks across the valley and a chill breeze promised another freezing night. Englebert kicked sullenly at the hoar frost forming on the sparse grass tufts and shivered at the cold penetrating his thin jacket.
“I’m not going up there, Alarik,” he shouted back. “You’re being foolish!”
Lorraine Jericevic
Opening of my Middle-Grade fabulist novel -The Wayze. I will bravely accept any comments…..
He was just an ordinary boy. Not the cleverest or the fastest. And certainly not the bravest. But then, ordinary boys, and girls of course, often turn out to be not quite so ordinary after all.
And this was just an ordinary day, like every summer day that year. Cold, bleak, silent. Not at all the sort of day that could change anything. But then, such days (like boys and girls) sometimes have a way of surprising us.
There was none of the usual welcome. As bare-boned as a skeleton, the tree stretched through the dark shadows. Bird, travelling on Finn’s dream thoughts, sniffed the dank rotting leaves; took a swift turn; and flew straight back. The nightmare was real.
***
Hugging himself to keep warm, Finn hopped over the cold bedroom floor, searching for a lost sock. Books and clothing scattered the floor, along with a heap of last night’s heavy blankets. He was always being told off for being untidy, but who could blame him. His room was too small. Even his bed felt too small. Nothing seemed to fit any more; especially himself. A muddle of his old childhood toys cluttered the corner shelf. After Mum had tried to throw them away, he had retrieved them. They are mine, and it is up to me what I do with them. Then he remembered, grinned, and punched the air. Yeah. no school; no Sneaky Sli. And a whole summer to escape to the Woods and the Upper Lands.