Begin as You Mean to Continue

 

Years ago, I attended a conference workshop where the presenter said it was important to signal the genre in the first few pages of a novel. More frequently, I have heard speakers say that the setting (time and location) and the main character should also be introduced there. There are  exceptions, of course, but they should be carefully thought through and done for a reason that enhances the story.

Those first few pages are usually the book’s best advertisement, and they shouldn’t misrepresent it. That includes the writer’s voice. Voice has many different definitions, but for my purposes here, I’m referring to the way the writer uses words, and I’m going beyond mere style.

Lately I find myself abandoning books partway through because they aren’t what I expected. They start out innocently enough. There may be an occasional swear word, but none are hard core, and any references to sex are oblique. The story is clearly PG. Then, about a fourth of the way through, the story becomes R in the intensity of the curse words and/or the graphicness of the sexual interaction. I can handle a few swear words and gentle references to sex, but too much spoils the story for me.

Some readers are okay with R-rated content, and some are even looking for it. That’s fine, but all of us deserve to know what we are getting into when we first pick up the book.

I don’t generally buy books sight unseen. Either I look at the first few pages when I am in a bookstore, or I use the Look Inside feature on Amazon (recently rebranded as “Read sample”). So if the book starts as it means to begin, sprinkled with swear words or explicit sex, I know enough to avoid it. If it doesn’t, I find myself extremely frustrated when the book proves to be something other than advertised.

As an aside, I do look at Amazon reviews—especially especially the one- and two-star reviews since they are the ones most likely to warn about language or explicit sex. But that doesn’t always work, either, especially if I am looking for an Amazon First Reads selection which doesn’t have many reviews yet.

A good writer will respect the audience and begin as he or she means to continue.

That Pesky Fatal Flaw

 

There are no hard core rules for fiction—they can all be broken if the writer does it intentionally to achieve a particular effect. But one of the stronger “suggestions” is that a protagonist should grow during a novel by starting with a fatal flaw that the protagonist overcomes by the end of the story. That’s not always the case, of course. James Bond has no fatal flaw and no growth, and I find him incredibly boring. Indiana Jones doesn’t grow through the course of the story, either, but he does start with a fatal flaw—his fear of snakes—that is still there at the end, and he has several other quirks that make him human and allow me to enjoy those movies. But unlike those characters, each of my protagonists needs to start with a fatal flaw and to overcome it by the end of the book.

So what’s the problem?

The first question is how to incorporate the fatal flaw into the first chapter without making the character so unlikeable that the reader gives up on the story too soon. I’ve read many an Amazon review where the reviewer put the book down after the first chapter because the protagonist was “too whiny” or “too selfish,” or something similar. If that characteristic is the fatal flaw, then the reader missed the point and the author allowed it. Sohow do I find the sweet spot that discloses the fatal flaw without making the character unlikeable? The only way I know is to write and revise and write and revise until my sixth sense—and my beta readers—says I have achieved it.

The second problem is finding the appropriate fatal flaw. When I started writing Lonely Rock, I was convinced that Jessie’s fatal flaw would be valuing her friends more than her family. But as I continue to write, that isn’t coming through. So now I’m wondering if I chose poorly. I’m not sure this is the right spot to experiment with a different fatal flaw, but I’ve made myself a note to work on it in the next draft and maybe change Jessie’s fatal flaw to self-doubt and/or fearfulness.

One thing is clear: Jessie needs a fatal flaw that creates empathy rather than disgust.

And I’m determined to get it right.

The story starts here--or does it?

 

Writers, myself included, often begin a story too early, giving a lot of background before reaching the place where the story really starts. We justify it by saying the background is necessary to the plot or characterization of the novel, which, even if true, is just an excuse for bad writing since it can usually be woven into the story when it becomes relevant. As I said, I’ve been guilty of this too and had to force myself to go back and cut out pages or even chapters at the beginning of the manuscript.

But my current work in progress, Lonely Rock, is different. This time I started too late.

In my original first chapter, Jessie and her friends were looking forward to a fun summer. That would have been fine if the book was about what happened to Jessie and her friends over the summer. I started there because I wanted to show the reader what Jessie was like, and she is all about her friends. But the real story involves Jessie’s move to a lighthouse, and the friends exit offstage. If I start the book with them, readers will expect these walk-on players to have major roles and will be disappointed when that expectation isn’t met.

That chapter also introduced too many people at once. Aside from Jessie’s three friends, I had various townspeople show up to make the scene more interesting. That can be confusing to a reader.

The second chapter introduced the other major players—Jessie’s family. And there were no extraneous characters to confuse the reader.

So what did I do? I switched the two chapters with a few minor changes to the timeline and how I introduced the setting. To make it work, I had to move the story back several days. I think I also managed to find a way to introduce readers to Jessie’s personality without having her friends present. But this is the first draft, so it may change again.

Because maybe there’s an even better place to start.

Keep the Reader Reading: The Art of Story

One of the regular readers of this blog told me that she found last week’s entry a bit confusing. Many writers are not educators and don’t use rubrics, so maybe that’s where the problem lies. Or maybe I just wasn’t clear. In any event, I’ll try to keep these subsequent posts focused on the fundamentals with fewer references to the rubric.

There are some writers who write purely for their own enjoyment, and a rare few may not care if anybody else finds their work worth reading. But most of us want an audience. When that’s the goal, fiction is worthless if it doesn’t keep the reader reading.

So what does keep a reader reading? The secret is in those building blocks that I call the Art of Story: plot, characters, and the opening chapter. Here is a brief discussion of each.

Plot

Objective: To give the reader a ride that creates and maintains tension until it reaches a satisfying conclusion.

It can be a rollercoaster ride with mounting tension, as in the Harry Potter books, or a slow train ride thorough the country that simply maintains the tension, as in Alice in Wonderland. The type of ride often depends on the genre.

Alice in Wonderland creates tension when Alice falls down the rabbit hole and maintains it as she tries to find her way back home. As the story progresses, things get “curiouser and curiouser,” but the tension doesn’t necessarily grow stronger. And it doesn’t need to. Between the tension that continues to exist and the adventures that happen along the way, the reader is motivated to keep reading.

A “satisfying conclusion” doesn’t always mean a happy one, although most readers would prefer that. A satisfying ending is simply one that makes sense to the reader. It doesn’t have to be a complete resolution, either. Voldemort remains a menace at the end of the first six Harry Potter books, but the immediate problem in each has been resolved.

For purposes of the rubric, plot is worth 20% of the score.

Characters

Objective: To create realistic main characters, including a protagonist the reader can identify with.

Readers engage best with a story when the main characters are multifaceted (round) rather than one-dimensional (flat). Real people are always multifaceted once you get to know them. If a reader sees only one dimension, the author has turned the character into a caricature. That’s fine for minor characters but not for the ones the reader spends significant time with.

Realism also requires major characters to be predictable—after the fact. The character may do something that surprises the reader, but the reader should be able to look back at the behavior and say, “that makes sense for this character in these circumstances.”

Roundness also helps the reader distinguish between characters. When they are multifaceted, there is room for differences even when the story calls for them to share many qualities. Or it can work the other way around. In my novel Inferno (which is currently circulating to agents), two cousins think they have nothing in common but discover that they are more alike than different. That mirrors real life, where I had the same experience with my first college roommate.

The protagonist is a major character and needs to be realistic, and the reader must also be able to identify with that character. This doesn’t mean the reader has to like the protagonist, but there must be some aspect of his or her problem or personality that the reader can relate to.

For purposes of the rubric, characterization is worth 15% of the score.

Opening Chapter

Objective: To begin the story by hooking the reader, identifying the style of the book, and providing information on characters and setting.

Opening lines are important, but they don’t usually sell books. Good writing sells books. It may take an entire chapter to hook the reader and set up the story, and that’s okay. Most readers will give you that much time before putting the book down. And even when leafing through the selections at a bookstore or using the “Look Inside” feature on Amazon, most purchasers will give you a page or so to convince them that you are a good writer.

Still, the pages that the potential purchaser or reader does give you need to grab the reader’s interest. Or it is probably more accurate to say they should grab the interest of the intended audience. Readers’ tastes vary, and no first line, first page, or first chapter will appeal to everyone.

The first pages also need to clue the reader in about the style of the book. This is mostly, but not entirely, a matter of genre. A sweet romance shouldn’t start with a chase scene or the reader will be disappointed when he or she discovers it isn’t a thriller. Or vice versa.

Readers also want to be introduced to the protagonist and given a sense of the setting. Not all first chapters do this, but the ones that eliminate those matters successfully are the exception rather than the rule.

For purposes of the rubric, the opening chapter is worth 5% of the score, giving the Art of Story a total of 40%.

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TO LEARN MORE:

If you want more of my advice on these issues, here is a list of earlier blog posts.

Plot:

·       Get on with It (August 22, 2016)

·       End There (June 6, 2016)

·      Deus Ex Machina: A Literary Device to Avoid (August 29, 2016)

·       Writing Lessons from A Christmas Carol: Creating an Imperfect Ending (December 21, 2015)

Characters:

·       Inflatable Characters (IWC Blog, June 1, 2016)

·       Who is Who? (March 27, 2017)

First lines:

·       First Lines--Dispelling the Myth (May 1, 2017)

·       First Lines--You Can't Please Everyone (May 8, 2017)]

·       First Lines--Starting with a Bang (May 15, 2017)

·       First Lines: Introducing an Intriguing Character (May 22, 2017)

·       First Lines--Foreshadowing (May 29, 2017)

·       First Lines--Raising Questions (June 5, 2017)

·       First Lines--Telling the Whole Story (June 12, 2017)

And finally, here is a post on matching the opening scene with the genre:

·       Bad Beginnings (September 29, 2014)

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The picture is an illustration by John Tenniel for the original edition of Alice in Wonderland. It is in the public domain because of its age.

Bad Beginnings

As I prepared to pitch a novel at a conference last week, I thought about how many ways I had started it before finding one that works. And the biggest lesson I learned? Genre matters.

 

In order to get the most from this post, you need a framework. Mirage is contemporary women’s fiction written for a Christian audience. It tells the story of an ambitious young lawyer who idolizes her father. When he is arrested for running a Ponzi scheme, she is initially convinced of his innocence. But as evidence of his guilt mounts and her own career is threatened, she struggles with God’s command to forgive. Will she lose everything, or will she discover God’s true plan for her life?

 

My first attempt at an opening chapter was filled with heart-wrenching sequences. It started with a television news report about a silver Jaguar involved in a fatal accident. (I know that isn’t a Jaguar in the picture, but it was the only thing I could find to go with this blog post.) Although the victim is unidentified, Sarah is terrified that it was her father, and every mile is filled with anguished memories as she rushes to her parents’ home.

 

I thought it was a great opening. After all, it was a dramatic scene to grab readers’ attention. Then my writers’ critique group told me they didn’t know enough about Sarah yet to care.

 

We don’t know anything about Indiana Jones at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark, either, and it works anyway. So why was mine different? Maybe if I had added more heart-stopping situations it would have been okay as the opening for a thriller or an action adventure. Those genres attract readers who wait for the next heart attack. But readers of women’s fiction are looking for human emotions, not heart-stopping scenes.

 

My second attempt took a metaphorical approach. Sarah admired the façade of her parents’ home without realizing that façades are sometimes deceptive. But that one just fell flat. Maybe I could have made it work for literary fiction, but that’s not what I was writing.

 

On to number three. I lopped off the first couple of chapters and started with a favorite one where Sarah goes sailing with her new boyfriend. Then I submitted it for a critique at a writers’ conference I attended last year. The comments were very helpful—for a romance. Shame on me for misleading the reader as to the genre.

 

My fourth attempt was another try for a drama. Sarah was tutoring a first grader, and the chapter opened with Sarah learning that the girl’s brother had just died. The problem? It lead my critique partner to expect the girl to have a greater role in the story than is the case.

 

I stuck with my fifth attempt. It doesn’t start with a bang, but all it has to do is grab the reader’s attention. The opening chapter now begins this way:

 

            “When was the last time you visited someone in prison?”

 

            Sarah Bartholomew never had. She didn’t even know any criminals. But she leaned forward in her pew as the sermon continued.

 

            “Our church sends volunteers into the jail once a week to tutor inmates who dropped out of high school. Prisoners who earn their diplomas are less likely to return to a life of crime when they get out.”

 

            That sounded interesting, but the firm would never let her do it. The partners already begrudged the time she spent tutoring at the Boys & Girls Club.

 

            The minister pointed toward the congregation. “The hours are seven to nine in the evening one day a week. Anyone here can surely give that much.”

 

            Not if they worked for Mason, Adams, and Marshall. Still, the long nights and short weekends she put in would be worth it when she made partner.

 

            Besides, there was a reason she hadn’t gone into criminal law. Defending the innocent would be too stressful. What if she failed to get them off?

 

            And she had no sympathy for the guilty.

 

In the rest of the chapter, Sarah drives to her parents’ house for their regular Sunday afternoon dinner, and they talk about the time they spend volunteering.

 

I think this new opening chapter foreshadows the main plot in the book, in which Sarah discovers that her father has been running a Ponzi scheme; introduces the three main characters (Sarah and her parents); and makes Sarah a sympathetic figure because of the time she spends volunteering.

 

In any event, it works better for women’s fiction than the earlier attempts did.

 

By the way, just because a chapter doesn’t work as an opening doesn’t mean it won’t work elsewhere. I salvaged all of the attempts except the second and used them elsewhere in the manuscript.

 

What are your thoughts?