More on Beginnings

“Beginning: The point in time or space when something starts.” – Oxford languages.

From that deceptively simple definition stems a lot of writerly misunderstanding. At a rough and very unscientific estimate, around 90% of the writing advice on beginnings talks about what belongs in the first few pages – introducing characters, setting, conflict, mood, etc. – and/or how best to catch a reader’s attention (with a “hook,” with dialog, in the middle of some action, etc.). There are two problems with all this intense focus.

First, it is all about what the beginning of a story does, not about what a beginning is.

By definition, the beginning of a story is a point in time or space – it is a where and a when. The trouble is always in nailing down exactly where and when. Many stories are set in motion by events that happen long before the “when” of the book’s first line. The One Ring was created, won by Isildur, lost in the river, and found by Deagol/Gollum long, long before the opening scene of The Lord of the Rings. Many murder mysteries – most Sherlock Holmes stories, for instance – are set in motion by a death that takes place some time before the opening scene of the story (and the reasons behind the killings take place long before that).

So why do these books open where they do? Because the beginning of the book is not necessarily the beginning of the story. Books (and short stories) generally start near the point where the ongoing story intersects the life of the protagonist. I say “near,” because a book can begin just before, just at, or just after the point in time where the intersection takes place. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t intersect with the murder until a client knocks on his door – and most of the stories start just before that happens. The ongoing story of the One Ring doesn’t intersect with Frodo until Bilbo leaves it for him after their birthday party, again, a just-before opening.

An aware author can do interesting things with this information. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone opens with the very-normal Dursleys, which seems odd at first. But the point at which the story begins for Harry is when Voldemort attacks and kills his parents. The opening of the first book takes place the day after the attack, when the odd wizarding celebrations are spilling over into the Dursleys’ “normal” world.

It’s an unusual way to do a just-after opening – seen through the eyes of a relatively minor character (whose personal story is just-before intersecting with Harry’s story) who isn’t anywhere near the main event, while the protagonist is a) offstage and b) too young to provide the kind of details the author wants to get in (and only those details – Rowling unfolds the description of Voldemort’s attack gradually over several books, which she really couldn’t have done if she’d used baby Harry as the viewpoint from the get-go).

The second problem with the focus on catching a reader’s attention is that a lot of this advice assumes that a fabulous, unforgettable opening (especially a fabulous, unforgettable opening paragraph, and super-especially that crucial fabulous, unforgettable opening line) is not merely an absolute necessity for every story, but something that is essential for any book to sell (whether that means selling to an editor, an agent, or a reader).

Here is what ought to be an obvious truth: A fabulous, remarkable first line, first paragraph, and first chapter, followed by a mediocre story, are only going to stick in an editor’s, agent’s, or reader’s mind as a crashing disappointment. A rather unremarkable opening, followed by a fabulous story, will stick in an editor’s, agent’s, or reader’s mind as a great book, especially once you get into it.

The grain of truth at the bottom of the focus on the beginning of the story is that there is one thing an opening sentence, paragraph, and scene does need to do – get the reader interested enough to keep reading.

Here is another truth that should be obvious:  Every page of a novel, novella, novelette, or short story has to do that exact same thing. Any reader can put a book down at any point if they lose interest or are interrupted. The words on the page have to be interesting enough that they will come back whenever that happens – and it makes no difference whether they are interrupted halfway down Page 1 or at the end of Chapter 15 (out of 25).

All the claims about hooks, action, dialog, inciting events, and so on are different people’s theories about what works to keep readers interested. If any of them were always true, all stories would have been being told that way since Gilgamesh. Maybe even earlier.

Because there’s one other problem with every single one of these theories:  Readers (and editors, and agents) are all plurals. As in, more than one individual. And since not all individuals have the same tastes, the things that catch and hold one individual’s interest will be different from the things that catch and hold some other individual’s interest.

Getting a story moving, and keeping it moving, can be done in multiple ways, all of which work…for some readers. When in doubt, the most useful technique I have found is to write the opening of the story with the mental attitude that it might be scaffolding – something that one will have to rewrite or cut entirely once the first draft is done and the shape of the book is clear. In other words, I try not to get too attached to whatever is happening (at the detail level), so if I have to redo it later, it won’t feel so catastrophic.