Space Opera

 

How do we recognize that one sentence is like another? 

I saw this sentence on Twitter, in a thread of favorite first sentences. I immediately thought, "That's inspired by The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." I had only the sentence to go by.

In Catherynne M. Valente's acknowledgments for the book Space Opera, she clearly states that Douglas Adams and The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy inspired that book. What is it about her first sentence that told me that? Here it is: "Once upon a time on a small, watery, excitable planet called Earth, in a small, watery, excitable country called Italy, a soft-spoken, rather nice-looking gentleman by the name of Enrico Fermi was born into a family so overprotective that he felt compelled to invent the atomic bomb." 

The first sentence of Hitchhiker's is: "Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun." (See my previous blog post for more details on how that sentence works.) 

Both sentences have multiple adjective-laden phrases. Both choose slightly unexpected details. For example, Adams uses "unregarded" and "unfashionable" for objects in outer space, while Valente calls both "Earth" and "Italy" "small, watery, and excitable." Those bring the absurd flavor of Adam's sentence into Valente's. Although Valente's first phrase, "Once upon a time," places the sentence in time, her next two, like Adams' second and third phrases, place the action in space. They both take a wide perspective. In Valente's case, it is speaking of our entire planet as "small." 

And both sentences end on a surprise. In fact, "bomb" is a more direct surprise than "sun." Valente's sentence may in fact push farther than Adams' sentence does. Her sentence is longer, with more phrases and more adjectives per phrase. His stops when it has well-defined a place. Hers adds a person, his upbringing, and his invention. 

The two sentences have a similar humor, with absurdity and twists in perspective, a similar galactic perspective, and both use the comedic technique of ending on a surprise. 

What a surprise Valente's sentence holds! We expect someone with an overprotective childhood to grow up anxious and afraid to try new things. Instead, she tells us that Enrico Fermi went to the other extreme: inventing a bomb that destroyed cities, lives, and our understanding of the world. It's an explosive ending. 

The first sentence of Space Opera, by recalling and exceeding Hitchhiker's, promises that if we liked Adams' book, but think it could have been more intense, we'll like this one. 

I'm happy to report that Space Opera delivers on that promise. If you read Hitchhiker's and Space Opera, you'll find even more ways that they share a flavor and ways that Valente takes her story in her own direction. It pleases me that first sentences can imply these correspondences, the way a seed contains the information for an entire plant. 

I'm also happy to report, that with the longer sentences and more vibrant descriptions, Space Opera is well-served by Valente's deployment of that great new invention, the comma. 

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

The international sensation of the book world before Harry Potter was The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was fresh, it was funny, it sold a ton of copies, created a passionate fanbase, and spawned a series of sequels. Hitchhiker's was an event and a cultural touchstone. If it seems less familiar now, that may owe to its publication in 1979 or to Douglas Adams' death at 49 in 2001. 

Its first sentence takes a curious perspective: "Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun." Let's take it one phrase at a time. "Far out" describes a location – as well as being a space age exclamation of delight. To whoever is speaking, something is either distant or wondrous. 

"In the uncharted backwaters" has a slight tension in it. "Uncharted" means not yet explored or mapped (from the point of view of the speaker); "backwaters" suggests less important or less traveled – if it isn't explored yet, how do they know it is less vibrant? This is the self-centered perspective of someone who treats their own knowledge and culture as the measure of the world. 

"Of the unfashionable end" – this again shows the speaker's judgment – they are speaking of something that doesn't match their idea of attractive culture. Strangely, while "far out" is hazy, "uncharted backwaters" are most often on a continental scale, but here we have "unfashionable end" which we most often relate to a part of town. Our guess at the scale the speaker intends keeps moving. 

"Of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy" – suddenly, the scale is both vast and precise, and it's not what we would have expected – the previous words leaned toward a much smaller area. Can an entire arm of the galaxy be unfashionable? Surely that vast region could contain multitudes of levels of society. 

The last part of the sentence tells us what we can find in this location. There, "lies a small unregarded yellow sun." The speaker finds that sun small and "unregarded," another word like "backwater" and "unfashionable" that suggests unimportance. This sun, on the scale of the galaxy, and from the perspective of the speaker, is nothing of note. 

But wait! Our sun is a yellow sun in the western spiral arm of the galaxy. Does the speaker mean that the star that gave us birth, that provides our light and heat and made us possible, is no big deal? The sting in the end of this sentence, as it lands on the word "sun," normally the magnificent and huge energy source around which our world literally revolves, is that our sun is inconsequential, and so we, who depend on it, are even more so. We are used to measuring the world from our point of view. Here, instead, we find ourselves at the small end of someone else's hierarchy. 

I see two main sources of humor in this sentence. One is the mixing of levels, from neighborhood to galaxy, that creates a wry absurdity. The other is that final reversal of perspective, a surprise hinging on the strong final word. 

I also note that the sentence appears to predate the invention of commas. 

Graphical elements by Ken Silbert

Photo by Kyle Goetsch on Unsplash

Halsey Street

 

Naima Coster's first sentence is pure description: "The bar was two stories below street level, its wooden walls curved to resemble the bow of a ship." No person appears. There's no immediate conflict. Instead, we see specific, fresh details. This places the sentence directly in the literary tradition. 

Literary works often include beautiful writing and close attention to the details of the world. Here we have a bit of alliteration: repeated "st" in "stories below street" and repeated "w" in "wooden walls." The rhythm is uneven, with no pattern repeating enough to draw attention to itself. 

Many stories start in bars. I have never seen a bar just like this one. At two stories below street level, it is hard to find. It might be the kind of bar that mainly fills with regulars, as people walking by would have a hard time spotting it. The curved wooden walls are unusual and distinct. I imagine them as sheltering as they enclose the bar's customers. 

The sentence ends by comparing the bar's walls to the bow of a ship. The bow is the leading portion of a ship. A ship already connects to travel and journeys, and by mentioning the bow particularly, the author strengthens that reference. Coster could have written "the hull of a ship" – after all, the entire ship curves. "Bow" struck me as the strangest word in this sentence. It's a deliberate choice – and it gives extra weight to the idea of a journey – and the way both "bar" and "bow" start with "b" adds another link between them. 

A bar and a ship are both places where many stories begin. In bars, we mix with people who may bring new possibilities. Ships can take us to new lands. Those associations intrigue me. The sentence also promises observation and good language, to make the coming journey vivid and enjoyable. I want to see where we go next. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Hat tip to Doug Weathers, my in-house proofreader, who caught the third alliteration between "bar" and "bow." I'm very lucky. 

Black Angel

Short stories can be fertile ground for seeking interesting first sentences. When telling a tale in few words, the first sentence needs to carry a fuller portion of weight than in a novel. I found several appealing first sentences in the anthology Octavia's Brood, and I recommend it to sample a variety of authors and approaches.

Walidah Imarisha's story, "Black Angel," starts with this sentence: "Under flickering streetlights, A. walked alone for the first time since she saved Tamee." I immediately imagined an urban, slightly dilapidated neighborhood, and then I wondered why. "Flickering streetlights" is a telling detail. Cities have streetlights, and they flicker either as the sun sets or when they are in bad repair. The words "alone" and "saved" both suggest danger, a better match to the lights being out of order than to sunset. Finally, the -ing ending of "flickering" shows that the on and off lighting continues over time, while "A. walked." Sunset flickers are brief. The precise detail of flickering streetlights was enough for my mind to conjure an entire city street. 

The sentence gives us two important clues about when it happens, as well. It's night, since the streetlights are on. This is also the first time in a while that A. has walked alone. Every first time marks a change. A.'s new activity exposes her to new dangers. A dark street in the city is hazardous, especially alone. That creates tension. 

We also have two characters: A. and Tamee. Normally, a woman would be more at risk alone, but A. saved Tamee. She must be strong. Is she ready to handle this street, at night, alone? The sentence implies that question, and seeing how it plays out carries us into the story. 

Some first sentences unroll a thread that runs through the entire story. This is one of them. I liked the sentence and the story. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

 

A Prince on Paper

 

Suppose you wanted to pack your first sentence with as many story elements as possible. The first sentence of Alyssa Cole's book, A Prince on Paper, is an excellent model to follow. 

Cole starts her sentence with a name: Nya Jerami. Both the first name and the last name fall outside the naming traditions I've seen the most of. That suggests Nya Jerami comes from a different world or culture. By starting with a name, Cole places that person at the center of her story. 

Next, we see Nya take action: "returned her ... seat ... pushed aside her braids." She controls her situation, in at least these small ways. A character who acts is more appealing than one who passively suffers from outside forces. 

The trappings of these actions begin to outline Nya's world. Her seat is "obscenely comfortable," suggesting great wealth. She has "wireless earplugs," suggesting modern technology. "Seat to the upright position" is a phrase belonging to airplane travel. Nya is traveling in style. 

Notice how the punctuation makes this sentence easier to read. The comma separates Nya's two actions, and with "then" clearly shows that Nya completes one action before starting the next. The dash makes a more emphasized break in the sentence. After the dash, Nya is no longer acting – we are seeing the reason for her actions: "no amount of relaxing meditation music was going to make her feel better" so there is no reason for her to leave the ear plugs in to continue listening. 

The very last phrase shows what she is stressed about "returning home to Thesolo." This shows the conflict. Home is often a place of comfort, but Nya feels bad about going there. Where is Thesolo? The specific technology of our world – reclining seats and wireless earplugs – meet the name of a place that doesn't exist in our world. We are in a slightly different world, with elements of fantasy – great wealth and an unknown place – beside elements of reality. 

The strong, final word both shows us that this is an alternate reality and completes the sentence's description of Nya. She is a woman with braids from Thesolo. 

The sentence contains character, world, and conflict, action, feeling, and description. 

Cole could have broken it into three sentences: "Nya Jerami returned her obscenely comfortable seat to the upright position," "She pushed aside her braids to remove the wireless earplugs from her ears," and "No amount of relaxing meditation music was going to make her feel better about returning home to Thesolo." That would have felt like these three concepts were less tightly tied together, and it would also have slowed the readers' arrival at the conflict, as we pause longer at periods than we do at commas or dashes. If the first sentence stops at "upright position," Nya has fewer dimensions. We've only seen her comfort at that point – not her braids, her home, or her sadness. 

The choice to combine those three sentences works here, and Cole's punctuation supports that choice beautifully. The rhythm of the sentence, with mostly one or two unstressed syllables between stressed syllables, also makes the long sentence easier on the ear. 

I have extra admiration for sentences that open a story well in few words. To use this greater number of words, and keep the sentence clear and smooth, and capture this many story elements, is also good writing. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Milk in My Coffee

I heard of Eric Jerome Dickey's death last month and went looking for one of his books. Milk in My Coffee caught my eye. I liked the first sentence, and I liked the book. I wish I'd heard of him sooner. 

"Before I could make it to the 42nd Street station in Times Square, my damn fingertips were aching." The sentence establishes a specific location: near 42nd Street station in Times square. We could find this place down to the block, and from New Year's Eve broadcasts and dozens of movies, we know this place: New York City. 

We also hear a voice. The mild swear word "damn" intensifies the final phrase and marks the speaker as someone who will break a social expectation. It makes the sentence rougher, bolder, and more personal. It falls in a curious place: "my damn fingertips were aching." It's more common to swear at other people or outside circumstances. Who would damn themselves or some part of themselves? Why be angry with your own fingertips? 

The fingertips hurt. They started hurting "before I could make it" – that is, in a short time. It must be very cold outside. 

So we have a character ("I," a person open enough to swear in front of us), in a location (Times Square), with a problem (very cold). That's three strong parts of a setting. 

The physical cold won't last. But swearing at oneself is a sign of discomfort – perhaps an emotional sort of cold – that could take longer to overcome. Now the story is well launched. 

I'm not sure why Eric Jerome Dickey hadn't come to my attention sooner. The ways I keep up with publishing hadn't intersected his publicity. I'm spreading my attention more widely since I started gathering interesting first sentences. I was glad to have his portrait of the people and perspectives in Milk in My Coffee. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

The Nickel Boys

 

First sentences are like icebergs: Only a fraction of their meaning lies on the surface. Every word reflects the ways people use it, the places we've seen or heard it used before, the world that we describe with it. The first sentence of Colson Whitehead's book, The Nickel Boys, is the forty-third one I've written about. The underlayments and reflections of first sentences let me continue playing and discovering. 

"Even in death the boys were trouble" is another short, potent sentence – seven words. The word "death" always raises the stakes. All our survival instincts rise when we fear the cutoff of life. 

"Boys" raises the stakes again. It's worse when the young die. We hope every life will be a long one. There is not one dead boy, either – the sentence says "boys," not "boy." Many years of potential life have been lost. When the words "boys" and "death" come together, something has gone very wrong. 

The words "boys" and "trouble" can come together for situations that are light as well as heavy. We have one vision of boys' trouble that is relatively harmless: taking frogs from the creek, hiding comics under the bed, sneaking an extra cookie. We have another vision that is dire: standing watch for drug deals, bringing guns to school, battling with fists and knives. These are our social stories of the trouble boys get into. Who do you see when you call up movies of these playful or threatening scenes of boys' trouble? How do the boys look different? School studies have shown that students tend to meet the expectations their teachers have for them. What a burden it must be to look like a boy we imagine for the worse scenes of boys' trouble. 

While death is the end of our hopes, it is also the end of our responsibilities. The narrator of this sentence still blames the boys for the trouble: "Even in death the boys were trouble." How can this be? What continuing action can the boys take that will bother the speaker? They can't. By saying this, the narrator pushes their own responsibility onto the boys, making the boys the scapegoat for trouble the speaker has brought upon themself. 

(I would put a comma after "death" in this sentence. I strongly prefer to end opening phrases that place the rest of the sentence in a time, place, or situation with a comma. Good writers can disagree on punctuation choices.) 

This first sentence sets the tension for the story very high. It also shows the work of prejudice, as the narrator blames the boys, even beyond death, for trouble. 

That's a lot to accomplish in a handful of words. The many links we have from these words – especially "death," "boys," and "trouble" – to our own experiences make that impact possible. 

Graphic elements by Ken Silbert

The Lincoln Lawyer

 

At Goodreads, Michael Connelly put up a note about how he found the first line of his book, The Lincoln Lawyer. That gives us an opportunity to see behind the curtain. Before we look at what the author said, let's look at what the sentence says.

The first line is: "There is no client as scary as an innocent man." There is no location, no time, and no name in this sentence. Instead of describing a particular moment or person, this sentence asserts a conclusion. From some experience or observation, whoever is speaking believes something about clients, fear, and innocence. 

Who has clients who might be innocent? Most likely, a lawyer does. Who is afraid when they are? Again, a lawyer. The narrator worries the most when their clients are innocent. 

That's a bit of a surprise. We expect that someone innocent is safe and well-behaved; a guilty client could be murderous or violent or scheming. Why does the narrator think innocent clients are scary? That creates a mystery that draws us to read on. 

The words doing most of the work here are client, scary, and innocent. Those three are the most distinct, and the last two set up the mystery. Will we see an innocent and scary client in the rest of the story? 

Michael Connelly heard this line from a lawyer and knew it was his first line and also the thru-line. Connelly wrote that he had been "searching the whole time for the thru-line, the engine of the story." Once he heard this, he "started putting together a story that would prove what the lawyer had told me." Because he had been planning to write a novel about a lawyer, he was spending time with lawyers, and he was ready to catch the line when it came. 

I like the image of a sentence as an engine. When that happens, the first sentence captures the essence of the story. This one promises that we will see an innocent man in a scary situation. It's a strong start to a good story. 

Fabulous Beasts

 

The first sentence of Priya Sharma's story "Fabulous Beasts" is another short, potent sentence. It's a piece of dialogue. Someone – we don't yet know who – is saying, "Eliza, tell me your secret." That quickly, we have two characters: Eliza and the person who is speaking. 

The speaker knows Eliza well enough to address her by her first name. That could be close knowledge or casual knowledge, depending on the setting. In some worlds, only the very closest of relationships allow the use of a first name; in others, the first name is the usual introduction at a party or bar. The speaker also knows enough of Eliza to believe Eliza has a secret. And the speaker has standing enough to command that Eliza share the secret. 

We now know Eliza's name and that she may have a secret as well.

Secret is a strong word, and gains more strength in its position as the last word of the sentence. It means something is hidden – and "tell me" shows that someone wants to know it. That creates tension. We'd like to know the secret. What is it? Will Eliza tell? Why does the speaker want to know? 

If knowledge is power, then Eliza's secret is her power, and the speaker is hoping to gain it. There is a conflict there – if Eliza wanted it known, it would not be a secret. Eliza and the speaker want different results. 

In what situations do we hear someone say, "Tell me your secret?" Some of them are low-stakes: How did you make these cookies come out so well? Where do you buy your shoes? Some of them are high-stakes: Where did you hide the gold? Who is the traitor? Some of them carry emotional weight: Who kissed you? How did you get that bruise? From this sentence, we don't yet know what the impact of Eliza's secret may be. But because it starts a story, we expect it will matter for that story. There's no reason to tell a tale that starts with a secret if the secret doesn't have an impact. By starting with the secret, Priya Sharma is suggesting that what it is and what it means is the center of the story – the secret has importance and consequence. As readers of many stories, we understand that.

A secret, like a dead body, pulls us into a mystery. This sentence is a hook. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

Hench

I read Hench just a few days ago and liked it so much I wanted to tell everyone about it. I flipped to the beginning, checked the first sentence, and then reread the whole book. Natalie Zina Walschots crafted this book well from beginning to end. 

Her first sentence falls naturally into three parts. The first part, "When the temp agency called," sets the time and situation. The second part, "I was struggling" gives us a character, "I" with a problem, "struggling." The third part, "to make the math work," adds more detail both to the problem and the world. 

(Why three parts? The comma and the word "to." The one comma separates the first two parts of the sentence. The word "to" – a single, hard-working syllable often used to relate some words to others – starts the third part.)

Let's dig into each section a little more. "When the temp agency called" starts the story at a precise moment – as the phone rings. "Temp" is a modern, informal word. It suggests the speaker is someone contemporary. It also suggests that the narrator needs work – any work – as temp agency jobs are less prestigious than, say, headhunted jobs. The call may bring an opportunity. So right away, the narrator faces a choice. 

"I was struggling" – this means "I" was having a hard time. "Struggling" is also what we call people who are unemployed and desperate for income. With "temp agency," "struggling" picks up both those meanings. 

The last part, "to make the math work," is another way we talk about too little money for expenses. It also gives a sign that "I" thinks in terms of math and making things work. The narrator, while struggling, does have some skills and education and willingness to try. Most of us have been there or can imagine being there. So we empathize with the narrator's situation and begin to feel drawn to their side. 

It turns out that Hench takes place in a world where superpowers exist, and there are many systems to manage them. This first sentence doesn't clue us in on the story taking place in an alternate world. That information follows quickly on the page and the cover art and book descriptions also show it. For anyone counting, this is one vote against having your first sentence signal that the story takes place in an alternate world. 

Don't blame Ken Silbert for the Comics Sans font, shading, or color choices. He designed the frame and "First Sentences" cartouche. The rest is on me. 

Foundation

When I was young enough that I had never had a favorite author before, I found Isaac Asimov, and he became my favorite author. I was in sixth grade, twelve years old (which Peter Graham called "the golden age of science fiction"), and I went on to read all of Asimov's fiction I could lay my hands on, and all the books in the half-case section of adult sf in the very small public library of our town of 300 citizens. 

At twelve, I was innocent of any theories of writing or of how writers should conduct themselves. In fact,  I would be married and living in a larger city before I realized that Isaac Asimov was Jewish. 

Now some of Asimov's behaviors bother us. Don't put your hands on other people without their consent. I don't recommend that we take his life as an ethical guide and I hope we continue to learn kinder, more inclusive, and more equitable ways to behave. If the world goes well, fifty years from now, some of what I do may appall our descendants. There are some possibilities I suspect – I can imagine them floored by burning fossil fuels – and there may well be others I haven't even imagined. 

So I am inclined to grant Asimov grace enough to look at one of his sentences. 

Foundation was published in 1951. Its first sentence shows a young man taking that same trip from country to city that I would: "His name was Gaal Dornick and he was just a country boy who had never seen Trantor before." We don't know where Trantor is. But it is a place a "country boy" hasn't seen: very likely a city. 

Who is Gaal Dornick? A "country boy" with an unusual name. He's someone young, untraveled, and in an entirely new place – which means he can see Trantor at the same time as we do. He will have the same kinds of questions about it that we would if we were there. His name and the unfamiliarity of "Trantor" suggest that we are in a different world. Yet someone fresh to that world will help us enter it by puzzling his way through it as we would have to. 

The young character suggests we may see Gaal grow up; his arrival in a new place promises the pleasures of a travelogue. Gaal will need to find his way around, a source of conflict. This first sentence begins to open a world, a character, and a conflict for the story in eighteen simple words. 

As a small town girl myself, is it any wonder I wanted to see what happened next? 

I like the rhythm of the sentence, too. Try reading it aloud. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

The Cracked Bell

 

Now that I've made 38 posts about first sentences, I thought I'd take a look at one of my own. 

Uh oh. 

Well, I now know more and would have more ability to do better. But let's take a look and see what's working and what isn't. 

We start with a name: Jehaima. It's not a name in common use in our world. It has a form similar to female names of our world, in three syllables and ending in a, like Jemima or Katrina or Lucinda. So it suggests a female in another world or another time. 

Next, we have "could feel the distant hum" – there's a bit of sensory confusion here. "Feel" usually refers to the sense of touch, but hums are more often heard than felt. There's also something unusual about "distant" – touch only works at very close range, and hums are usually quiet, so having either one noticed at long range is odd. 

The hum comes from a duel. Somewhere, two people are fighting, and Jehaima knows it from a distance. This brings some conflict into the sentence. 

The next few words, "in her farsense," confirm that Jehaima is female and that this is an altered world. "Farsense" is not in the dictionary. It is a made-up word. "Far" goes with "distant" and "sense" goes with the mixture of touch and hearing from the words "feel" and "hum" earlier in the sentence. Farsense appears to be something Jehaima experiences a bit like touch and a bit like hearing, but that works at a distance. Jehaima has a power that people in our world don't have, and there is a word for it that we don't use. The word "farsense" by itself would signal that we are in a fantasy or science fiction story. 

So far, the sentence has given us a clue to the world, a protagonist, and the tension of a fight in the distance. This opens a story fairly well. I might have been well-advised to stop there, on the intriguing word "farsense," and give the reader a moment to engage. 

The next part of the sentence does not work as well. "An ongoing discordance" brings in some long words and the more difficult time stamp of something that is continuing to happen. "Discordance" is uncommon and awkward without being as interesting as "farsense." "Normally melodic" is another phrase that is hard to speak, with many syllables, a rough rhythm, and uncommon words. It also creates three time spans in the sentence: the current moment, shown by the simple past "Jehaima could feel," a slightly wider span created by the duration word "ongoing," and an even wider span indicated by "normally." That's a lot to convey in a single sentence. 

Finally, the sentence ends with "sounds of the kingdom." These are four words that don't carry as much information as they could. "Sounds" are more generic than any of these other words: songs, voices, rattles, barks, drumming, heartbeats. "Of" and "the" are extremely common words, that serve a function but do not add flavor. "Kingdom" does tell us that we are in a world with countries governed by hereditary leaders, which makes this more likely to be fantasy than science fiction – but what kingdom is it? Does it have a name? How large is it? "Kingdom" is almost generic for the location of a fantasy novel. It's not precise or flavorful or surprising enough to take advantage of the strong last word position in the sentence. 

The last half of the sentence is trying too hard, to do too much, and cover a wide span of time, and it lets the focus of the first half of the sentence dribble away in tongue-tripping phrases. 

I do like the abundance of hearing words in this sentence: hum, discordance, melodic, sounds. That suggests that Jehaima approaches the world through what she hears, and that sound will play a large part in the story. However, these words play against "feel," undercutting the idea that "farsense" is part touch, part hearing, and only "hum" is specific and strong. It might be better to change "feel" to "hear," leaving "farsense" entirely related to hearing. 

I published The Cracked Bell in 2014. I'd learned about self-publishing, and when I reread the book I'd finished some years before, it struck me as good enough to share. I gave it a light edit and sent it into the world. 

Graphic design and cover image from The Cracked Bell by Ken Silbert

I Was Told It Would Get Easier

 

Abbi Waxman breaks a rule in her first sentence. The rule is "Don't mix metaphors," and its purpose is to make writing clearer and avoid unintentional absurdities. 

What does it mean to mix a metaphor? It's when a writer begins by describing something as one thing and ends by describing it as another. In this case, Waxman first compares her day to a bull – that is what we "take ... by the horns" and ends by comparing it to a scarf. The result is that we imagine the narrator throwing a bull over her shoulder, horns to either side of her neck, legs and torso draping down her back. 

Writers can break rules. In fact, when they want the effect that breaking the rule brings, breaking them is good writing. With careful word choices, Waxman has made her sentence clear, despite the mixed metaphor. She intended the absurdity of a bull draped over her narrator's shoulder. 

Absurdity is one form of humor. Waxman may also have meant this sentence to be funny. Notice that the central mixed metaphor is softened by phrases before and after it. Look at what happens if we trim this sentence down to the absurdity: "I took the day by the horns and threw it over my shoulder like a scarf." To me at least, that is funnier. Taste in humor varies widely. Waxman's original sentence might tickle some readers more than the condensed version. I am more likely to laugh when the sentence is briefer and ends on the word that makes the unexpected contrast. 

So what happens when we add back in the words I took out? The first phrase, "I left the house this morning, determined to..." places the action in a specific time and place: "this morning," leaving "the house." Now her action is unusual, perhaps something she has only tried once or a change from what happens in other places and other times. "Determined to" is self-conscious. The narrator is observing her own emotions. The words of this phrase are bland, diluting the vivid image of the bull-scarf to come. 

The final phrase, "if necessary," casts doubt on whether everything before it will happen. The narrator is leaving herself an out. She might not take the day by the horns. She might decide she doesn't need to. 

The final effect is one of anxiety. The narrator wants to do something bold, and she has hedged it on both sides as uncommon and unlikely. 

The self-observing, somewhat funny, somewhat anxious female narrator places this book in the company of books by Helen Fielding and Sophie Kinsella. This sentence suggests that if you like the company of women like the narrator, you will enjoy spending more time with her. Many readers can empathize with feeling a little anxious, and like to spend time with people with a sense of humor. So the sentence calls to that audience specifically. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

The Sign of Four

 

Sherlock Holmes is a figure of enduring popularity. He was one of the first literary characters to gain a fandom. He hold a Guinness World Record as the most-adapted character. The name has only gained appeal and resonance in the one-hundred and twenty-nine years since his first appearance. 

In other words, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes are canon – or if not part of some universal canon, certainly an ancestor to wide swaths of stories about detectives and companions, intelligent men with abrasive personalities, and applying insight instead of force to resolve crimes. 

When I went to check for first sentences, I found the stories drew me in. The writing holds up.

What clues does this first sentence hold to the lasting appeal of Sherlock Holmes? 

The Sign of the Four is the second story Conan Doyle wrote about Sherlock Holmes. So the name Sherlock Holmes would have attracted readers who enjoyed the first story, but would not yet have had the widespread recognition it has now. "Sherlock Holmes" is a distinctive name. Neither the first name nor the last name are common. Together, they are very likely to mean one specific person. The name sticks in the mind better than a more common name might, and by its oddness, suggests the character will also be particular. 

There are other very specific details: "mantlepiece" – the shelf above a fireplace, "hypodermic syringe" – at the time, a fairly new piece of medical technology, "morocco case" – a fitted container covered in a specific style of leather. These details are like the clues that the mysteries will hinge on. They are precise, meaningful, and observant. 

At the time of the book, no law forbade a private citizen from having a syringe and a bottle of narcotic. Some people had developed addictions. In the following sentences, John Watson, a doctor, worries about Holmes' use of the drug. 

Reaching for a bottle and syringe, then, like now, showed that Sherlock Holmes had a flaw.  He was a closely observed character with both outstanding skills and significant weakness. 

I like the opposition here between "hypodermic syringe" and "neat morocco case." The syringe is dangerous, novel, and piercing. The case is tidy, traditional, made from animal skin, and enclosing. The tension between these items reflects the concern that the character who has them will harm himself. Wanting to see what happens creates a subtle hook. If I know the name "Sherlock Holmes," this sentence is also a promise that I will learn more about a character I like, and that there will be more close observations and exact details. 

This sentence works on many levels. 

Background leather texture by Felipe Santana on Unsplash, graphic elements by Ken Silbert

Empire of Wild

 

Cherie Dimaline, a First Nations author, fills Empire of Wild with details of a Métis community, perhaps similar to where she grew up. She starts making the world of the novel specific and unlike the community where I grew up from the first sentence. 

The first two words take on a less common meaning already. "Old medicine" on its own might mean "an expired bottle of Tylenol." The next words, "has a way" treats the medicine like a person, something that has habits and will of its own. This medicine is also capable of haunting the land – that gives it a spirit, like a ghost. Medicine that has will and spirit is powerful and shamanic. This is medicine in the sense of Native American knowledge. This word doesn't belong to me. Dimaline uses it to begin placing us in her world. 

Look at the phrases "being remembered" and "was laid." They both imply that someone remembered and someone laid the medicine. But while the medicine directly "has a way... of haunting" the people who remember and lay are pushed out of sight by the passive verb tenses. It feels as if the medicine has more control than the people do. 

These are words in the sentence that, rightly or wrongly (and Dimaline will ask us to consider this in the novel) we associate with indigenous people on this continent: old, medicine, remember, land. Each one in the sentence strengthens our association. Words sometimes work by bringing in connotations, drip by drip, until they add up to an impression, like spots of color added to a Monet painting. Artists can create effects from a single splash of an intense color, or from several points of less intense pigments. A writer also can choose several slightly associated words – rather than one strongly associated word – from a field to give readers an association with the field, creating a blatant or subtle effect. 

I see another set of words in this sentence: old, haunting, laid. These words draw from the language we use for cemeteries, ghosts, and horror. The sentence would point even more to horror if "laid" was changed to "buried." We use "buried" for the dead and "laid" for the inanimate and the sleeping. Do you taste how "laid" is a little softer and more ambiguous than "buried?" "Laid" also gives the alliteration with "land," which might be worth more to the sentence. 

Both "haunting" and "medicine" are strong, specific words. With the rest of the sentence, they build both place and sense of foreboding. This sentence is a hook. 

Two Roads

 

The prolific Native American author Joseph Bruchac starts his novel Two Roads with one of the most seductive of all American scenarios: the road trip. Roads remind us of freedom and travel. The words he uses here make this road all the more inviting. 

Let's start with "us": two letters that mean the narrator is traveling with at least one other person. Travel in company tests and refines relationships. Having someone with you – who can argue, laugh, watch your back, suggest detours, and more – makes a trip a richer experience. 

Next, there's "red." Red is the most attention-grabbing of colors. Red roads are far less common than black roads. "Red" is another short word that sets this road apart. The sound of "red road" is lovely as well. The words have both their first and last consonants in common, a pleasant close match of sounds. And both words are strong, accented syllables, making the two of them a pair of strong drumbeats. 

"Stretches out before us" calls us forward onto the road. There's room to move ahead. Since animals stretch, that verb makes it almost as though the road is placing itself for our attention. 

The red road stretching out before us is also easy to visualize. All these words are well-tied to the physical world. We can see red, roads, and stretches, and place them before us in our mind's eye. 

With "a long ribbon of light," the sentence turns a little more abstract. It repeats the idea of "long" that was in "stretches out" and the flat, parallel edges of a road are like the shape of a "ribbon." But "light" is not quite a match for "red." Light is more often white than red. So "light" doesn't simply repeat what the first of the sentence described in other words. It adds to or changes the picture. 

Light is also attractive. So the final word of the sentence adds another pull to move ahead on that road. 

I like the structure of this sentence. The rhythm is varied enough to reward reading aloud. The many Rs bring the sound together. And while many authors avoid repetition, the way the words after the comma echo the meaning of the words before the comma, and then add a twist, is reassuring without becoming stale. 

By the end of the book, I knew much more about who "us" was and what the roads they traveled would be, and I was happy to have taken that trip with them. 

The Four Profound Weaves

A novel is a world. Even when it takes place in current times, in the country where the reader lives, a novel opens a new perspective. For a while, a reader shares a narrator's vision, a narrator's priorities, a narrator's moment-by-moment passage through their experience. The change may be as subtle as moving a camera two inches or as vast as awakening to a pterodactyl's cry. 

In either case, the world of the novel is not the world of the reader, until they begin to read. So we readers need a doorway or a bridge to reach the world of a narrator. 

I love this opening sentence from R.B. Lemberg. It's not a hook – it doesn't strain with danger. It's not a promise. There's no weight on where the story goes next. The word "alone" suggests that "I" may stop being alone – or may not. The word "in" holds the possibility of "out" but doesn't coerce that next step. There's no giveaway to the genre of the story – an old goatskin tent could be historical or contemporary, realistic or fantastic. 

I have a third type of first sentence I consider: the seduction. First sentences are seductions when they promise pleasure. I started looking at this sentence, and I wasn't sure what pleasure it promised. Would I need to make a new category? "I sat alone in my old goatskin tent." 

No, as I looked longer, I saw the pleasures here. 

First, there's the pleasure of travel. I have never been in an old goatskin tent. Here's a chance to see what that is like. The precise detail – "old goatskin tent" – is rich and concrete. The narrator who sees that detail can bring me to their world well enough for me to see it, too. 

Then, there's the pleasure of autonomy. Whoever this narrator is, they have the independence to sit alone in their own tent. This "I" will control their own destiny, at least to that extent. I like spending time with people who make their own choices. 

The pleasure of clarity comes next. This sentence has no ambiguous or wasted words. 

The last pleasure I'll note is the pleasure of rhythm. I read the sentence with accents on the syllables I'll follow with apostrophes: I sat' alone' in my old' goat'skin' tent'. Would you drop the accent on skin? That creates a very steady rhythm, as "in my" rush together. But "skin" is so visceral, I find myself slowing so I can make the last three syllables all strong, hard raps. Either way, the rhythm adds music to the sentence. 

This sentence drew me when I first read it in a sample. This morning, with the whole book in hand, I smiled at the sentence again and read the entire short book before I came to write about it. 

Graphic Frame by Ken Silbert

Background vector created by Layerace - www.freepik.com

Trail of Lightning

 

Rebecca Roanhorse starts Trail of Lightning with a five-word sentence. That's short and fast. She also uses one word that, by itself, creates tension: "monster." So right off the start, we are rolling into the story and engaged with what happens next. 

How about the other words here? "The" suggests this monster is the only or most consequential one in the area. "Has" is present tense, which brings the story into the moment. Look at the difference a single letter makes between these two versions: "The monster has been here." "The monster had been here." "Has" is closer and more urgent. Also, because most of the stories we see in the present tense are also told by "I" – that is, in first person – "has" suggests that the narrator will be telling this tale directly. "Been" is neutral. Like all forms of the verb to be, it links other words with minimal shading of its own. The monster did not stand or rest or shred or kill or act in any more distinct way here. It existed here – which is worrisome enough. Finally, "here" is another word that brings the action of the story close to us. In this location, where we are, there was recently a monster. The monster might not have gone very far. 

A first sentence with tension or suspense is a hook. "The monster has been here" is definitely a hook. A first sentence can also be a promise – a sentence that creates an expectation about a story that the rest of the book needs to fulfill. With the word "monster" and the implied narrator, we have two characters. Monsters are usually villains and protagonists who tell their own stories are usually heroes. A villain plus a hero sets up a conflict. So this sentence suggests that the narrator and the monster will eventually face each other and fight. That is a promise. 

The word "monster" also suggests the genre of the story. Monsters appear in fantasy and horror, and can only belong to realistic fiction as metaphors. This sentence is blunt and straight-forward. There's nothing to suggest that this is a figurative monster. While the monster could still turn out to be, for example, an abusive father, an author who wanted to use "monster" in that way would usually give a clue in voice or other details. Instead, Roanhorse has surrounded the fantastic detail with ordinary words, a strategy used by authors like Stephen King to add reality to supernatural situations. 

I've read and enjoyed the entire book. The monster is literal and powerful. 

Could any five words have this much impact? No. I make a habit of choosing the first sentences that interest me. Only a tiny percentage of books start with a sentence that hold my interest enough for me to write about them, and very few of those are this short. Rebecca Roanhorse has written an excellent hook and promise. 

Solar Flares

 

Linda Hogan is an award-winning author, the recipient of a Guggenheim fellowship, and currently the Chickasaw Nation's author in residence. When I look for first sentences, following the tracks of others' respect often leads to interesting choices. I haven't yet read any of her books, so I am coming to this sentence as someone first opening the book might. 

That's not to say I am coming to the sentence with no preconceptions! In September of 2019, I marched, and "I hear the voice of my great-grandmother" was a line in one of our chants. Even though Hogan's sentence dates from 1995, I'm meeting it now, so I hear it flavored with the joint action and care for the world I associated with the march. 

This is the fate of anyone who speaks a language. Every sentence carries echoes of similar sentences, of how the words have been used before, and who has used them. If it were not so, the words wouldn't carry meaning from one person to another. 

Within the sentence itself, we have two characters: "I" and "my great-grandmother, Agnes." There's no particular conflict. The only verb, "hear" is neutral, nor are voices or great-grandmothers particularly threatening. Perhaps we'd feel a shiver if this seemed to be a ghost story, but there are no words to suggest a worrying or uncanny situation. "Hear" may simply refer to remembering. 

The most precise word is the name "Agnes." Agnes is a name once more popular than it is now. It seems a match to a great-grandmother. 

The most unusual part of the sentence is its location in time. "Hear" is in present tense. "Sometimes now" is complex. "Now" means currently, and often implies a very short period. "Sometimes" means only off and on, which requires a longer period so that the hearing has time to both happen and not happen. Together, "sometimes now" seems to mean in the current period but not before ("now") I intermittently ("sometimes") hear my great-grandmother's voice. The narrator uses two words to define the time, yet each of them has loose boundaries. The result is a slippery sense of when the sentence is happening – "now" but extending some amount into the past, "now" but maybe not this precise moment, only "sometimes."

"Great-grandmother" extends the timeline into the past. A great-grandmother must have existed well before her great-grandchild. The voice of the great-grandmother comes from the past, into the present, blurring the time mark even more. Although "hear" is simple and present, the words "sometimes" and "great-grandmother" stretch the current "now" farther and farther into the past, suspending "now" over a long period, like a vision of eternity. 

Hogan's sentence doesn't describe a danger. Instead, it shows memory and heritage. It promises that the narrator will grapple with the influence of the great-grandmother's voice – an appealing offer to readers who have their own family history to understand. 

Silver Sparrow

 

Tayari Jones starts her novel Silver Sparrow with a crime. A bigamist is someone who takes a second spouse without legally ending their first marriage. 

The speaker uses formal language to tell us of this crime. It's a curiously detached way to speak of it. "My father" is a distant way to speak of that relationship. Calling him by his full name is also unusually precise. That name, "James Witherspoon," has an English flavor, which we often read as more stiff, and also sets this in a legal context where bigamy is a crime. Then "bigamist" is the legal term, also cool and indirect. 

The two commas create pauses that add to the impression of speaking rationally and reflectively. The narrator's father has committed a crime – a shocking crime within that culture. But the narrator also speaks of this as distantly as possible. 

From this one sentence, we expect the story to unfold the consequences of this crime through close observation and muted feelings. 

How much differently would you expect the story to go if the first line was, "My pa Jimmy has two wives?" Would you be more or less intrigued if there were more emotionally laden words added to the sentence, such as, "My dad, James, is a lying, two-timing, worthless oath-breaker?" 

As it is, the two characters in the sentence – the narrator and the father – stand apart from each other, and the narrator looks at the father more to think about the situation than to feel it, at least on the surface. The crime in this sentence creates tension. The tone of the sentence suggests how the story will approach that problem. 

The more a reader likes that voice, the more drawn they will be to continuing the story. The sentence promises to think about a difficult situation. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert