Ragtime

 

Ragtime won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1975 and E. L. Doctorow continued to receive prestigious awards, up through the Library of Congress Prize for American Fiction in 2014. He had the acclaim most writers only dream of. 

What do I see when I look at the very narrow sliver of his work that is the first sentence of Ragtime?

We have a time, a place, and two people. We have strong implications of prestige. We have rhythm choices that echo the music named in the title. Let's take them one at a time. 

1902 is the named time. However, the narrator mentions that "Father built" then – which means we are looking back at 1902, with the house complete and the child of the builder grown enough to look back. We don't yet know how far into the past 1902 is. 

Similarly, we have two people – "Father" and the narrator – one observed, and one observing. 

Every word after "built" adds more dimension to the location. "A house" is broad enough to allow many different buildings. "At the crest of the Broadview Avenue hill" places the house on a commanding rise. Broadview Avenue suggests a wide and stately road. In most cities, the homes with the best views – and the ones displayed by rising on the heights – belong to wealthy citizens. I was not familiar with New Rochelle, New York – but the French ending "-elle" suggests refinement. A quick search shows that in 1902, families from New York were moving there to have more spacious homes. It was an early suburb, and, for people who lived in the area, that flavor of wealth and escape would resonate as reflexively as the knowledge of which are the wealthy areas of one's own town. 

"Father built a house" shows that he had the money and power to make his dwelling to his liking instead of buying someone else's design. Compare this to "Dad bought a home." Doctorow's version is cooler and more formal. Father is more distant than Dad and house is less loving than home. 

Doctorow doesn't need to say "my father was a wealthy man." The details show it. And then we wonder, how does the narrator relate to that father, and what has happened since 1902? The motion of the story begins subtly and slowly. 

Two parts of the rhythm particularly grab my interest. First, I would have put a comma after "1902." Doctorow is adept enough to have put one if he wanted it. Without it, the sentence has less of a break there, and the words roll together until the only comma, after "Rochelle." So we have one long string until "New Rochelle, New York." Prepared by the title of the book, I hear the final two words, "New York," as the final two notes in the iconic phrase of Scott Joplin's ragtime hit, "The Entertainer." The long stretch of words followed by the quick two syllables reflects the rhythm of one of the most likely songs to come to mind when someone hears the word "ragtime." What fun! Joplin wrote "The Entertainer" in 1902. 

Did Doctorow intend that connection? I'm unaware of him having said so, and without his statement, we can only infer his intent. Such puzzles are one of the pleasures of reading – and are also one aspect of more literary writing. Even this one sentence has clues to Doctorow's many awards. 

Thank you to Sasha Eileen Sutton for suggesting the sentence and to Ken Silbert for graphic design. 

Brown Girl in the Ring

Nalo Hopkinson started Brown Girl in the Ring with a true hook. The stakes are high: a viable human heart means someone's death. The problem is urgent: both "as soon as" and "fast" point to hurrying. We have a character, Baines – although he is giving someone else – "you" – the problem of finding a human heart. Baines has his own problems. He blurts out his speech, which shows he is anxious. 

We don't know much about the location. The room could be large or small, furnished or empty, new or crumbling – that's not important now. We need a human heart. Hopkinson made a good choice on which details to include and which to leave out. 

How did she choose those details? By selecting which words are precise, and which ones are generic. "Room" is generic. "Viable," "human," and "blurt" are specific. 

She has also used alliteration to emphasize the most important words. There are two pairs of words that start with the same letter: "Baines blurted" and "human heart." The first pair shows Baines possibly making a mistake and the second pair sets the stakes to life or death. 

The rhythm of the sentence also shows that she paid attention to how it sounded as well as what it meant. Just looking at the commas, we see a long phrase, then a short phrase, a long phrase, and a very short phrase. Try reading that aloud. Do you hear how the short phrases have extra emphasis? That single last word, "fast," is like a punch to the gut.

Brown Girl in the Ring caught a lot of attention when it came out. I remember liking it. A close look at the first sentence has raised my awareness of its craft. 

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

Why First Sentences?

I've published an article at Medium about what I'm learning from paying close attention to first sentences. Here's a link that will let you past their paywall: What I Learned from Studying a Dozen First Sentences.

More first sentences to come! 

The Picture of Dorian Gray

In the nineteenth century, the novel was young. Authors were wordier, readers allowed the time for it, and we hadn't yet created the theory that the first sentence of a book should be a hook.

The Picture of Dorian Gray became a classic, and I enjoyed reading it in high school. What remains in my memory is a delicious frisson of decadence and cruelty.

The first point that catches my attention now is that I'd definitely put a comma after "garden." Training as an editor will have that effect – my eyes are optimized for noting places to correct. One goal I have in the First Sentences series is to give myself a chance to savor a few words at a time.

Apparently, punctuation standards have changed. The original editor (or Oscar Wilde himself) may have preferred the older rule that every sentence should use commas in only one way; I find that the need to separate an opening clause from a main clause is more important than that rule. Thus, I'd add a comma.

Now that I've appeased my inner editor, I can stop and smell the roses – and the lilacs and the pink-flowering thorn. How audacious it seems to start a novel with three different scents! Very often, smell arrives only as an afterthought. At some point, well past the opening pages, a novel may contain a brief mention or two of scent. Future lovers notice each others' unique fragrance, past lovers mourn by sniffing abandoned clothing, detectives tense against the blood in the air marking a crime scene. Smell is the most visceral of senses – faster to call up memories than sight or hearing, broader than taste, sometimes even surpassing touch for the physicality of our response to it. Here are three flowers to evoke our senses, plus the wind to stir across our skin.

Wilde's sentence calls to the sense of smell first, with touch in the breeze and the implied heat of summer. Sight comes in through the named details and the word "pink," while the wind may also arouse hearing. Altogether, this is a strongly sensual opening.

There are no characters yet. A studio hints at an artist, so far unseen.

And what do we find as the freighted final word? Thorn. The most dangerous part of a flower gains the extra emphasis of coming last, and brings an edge and a warning to the heavily perfumed scene.

Well done, Mr. Wilde! That is an attractive, polished sentence, give or take one comma. (And I do appreciate the hyphen.) I'm eager to see what else your story offers.

Graphic design by Ken Silbert

X by Sue Grafton

Sue Grafton starts her 24th book in the Kinsey Millhone series in classic form. We have a character: Teddy Xanakis, whose Greek last name and gender-neutral first name already grant some distinction and interest. We have a problem: "would have to" means it's necessary, unavoidable – there is some reason that makes the next verb a requirement. And we have some attractive precision: steal the painting.

Many delicious heists aim at art. We value art – a single painting or sculpture or manuscript can weigh little and yet be worth millions of dollars. At the same time, taking a piece of art doesn't leave anyone at risk of starving – we can more easily forgive a theft that moves an object of beauty than one that takes food or medicine or even money. Art has glamour to go with its value. Art looks good on film, if the book is ever adapted. Yet, art can be awkward to value and resell, so the thief will need extra cleverness to profit from it.

A plan to steal a painting has excellent possibilities for plot. Within the mystery or thriller genre, we are already thinking of ways we've seen this happen, and ways we've seen it go wrong. If a reader liked those other stories, they might very well want to see what happens in this one.

This first sentence is definitely a hook.

In the 24th book in a series, Sue Grafton might have relaxed the tension of her first sentence. After all, she had an established audience, a world and characters that already drew many repeat visitors, and her reputation and history as a reliable storyteller and bestselling author to draw in her readers. She didn't. By placing a character and a taut problem in the first sentence, she promises that the book will be exciting and tense.

Maybe that's how she gathered the audience that supported her long series.

The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein

I read The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas by Gertrude Stein the first time I was in college. I looked it up recently, to see if its first sentence appealed to me for analysis.

This one is a blunt instrument. It's a straight-forward statement, in the form that has started many autobiographies. There aren't many words to suggest extra meanings. I thought I'd give this one a pass.

Yet I kept thinking about it.

It's a simple sentence on its own. "I was born" – of course you were, or you wouldn't be writing. "In San Francisco, California" – that has a little more interest to it. Even by 1933, when Gertrude Stein published this book, San Francisco had a reputation. The Gold Rush and the earthquake and fire of 1906, and Mark Twain's writings had all spread news of San Francisco. It was a large city, already, and known for wild and wooly frontier behavior and more diverse than most American cities. Still, born in SF, CA is not as strong a setup for action as "saw San Francisco for the first time," as mentioned in my previous post. When born, we are not yet ready to take action, and don't yet know if we will conform or rebel to the place of our birth.

There is something a little old-fashioned and formal about writing out San Francisco, California, instead of abbreviating either one. So the sentence has established person (I), place (SF, CA), and a little tone. Without conflict, it is not a hook – it is beginning to open a window. Would this draw me on to read more? Probably not – unless I already knew more than this first sentence holds.

In college, I came to this book with a lot of context. The professor set the book in its time and set Gertrude Stein's place in the literary scene she anchored. We looked at the playfulness of claiming to write someone else's autobiography. We compared the voice here to Stein writing in her own voice. Stein is deliberately writing simply, directly, and factually, as a reflection – or affectionate ribbing – of her lover's voice. With such context, "I was born in San Francisco, California" changes from basic to nuanced, and a literature student might continue to read to see what a gifted writer will do with the conceit of writing as a plain speaker.

How much context would a writer want to assume their audience had for the writing? Gertrude Stein sold the first copies to friends and acquaintances. She could assume they knew a lot. A first time novelist might want to assume all their readers will know is the genre... or the language, English... or the great events of the novel's period....

Writers and readers collaborate. We need a shared language to reach each other. How much a shared language contains – only the 600 words of Basic English? acquaintance with Alice B. Toklas? – can vary widely for different books. If you have a first sentence that isn't grabbing interest, it's worth checking how much you expect your readers to already know.

(I apologize that I do not remember which of my literature teachers introduced this book to me. I hope, if they discover this, that they will enlighten me and take some comfort that I remember the book.)

Days of Anna Madrigal

Armistead Maupin's book, The Days of Anna Madrigal, is deep in his series about connected characters in San Francisco. That means that many readers will come to this first sentence already trusting the author, already connected to the characters, already eager to read.

Did that allow the author to open the door to his story with less urgency? This I cannot know. However, I will note that the first sentence of the first book of the series, Tales of the City, contains a person and their circumstance in more classic first sentence form: "Mary Ann Singleton was twenty-five years old when she saw San Francisco for the first time."

So Maupin knew the form and chose to do something else here.

Let's see what we have here. He starts with the weather! He makes the bold choice to start with the most widely shared topic of conversation. Weather is a polite topic. Everyone experiences it, everyone has some interest, and yet no one becomes exercised over it. So we can kindly exchange a few words about it, extending a social interaction, at very little risk of acrimony.

Weather, in other words, unless extreme, is the opposite of dramatic.

The words up to the comma are common. Summer temperatures do vary, and, as averages have been trending hotter, there's nothing unusual about a summer that's warmer than usual. This is an ordinary observation, that any acquaintance might express to another.

Do we feel bored by that? Or do we feel at ease with it?

After the comma, the language becomes stronger. "Heat" is more than "warmth" and "throbbed" is more intense than either. It's a distinctive word, seldom applied to weather. I'm quite a bit less likely to tell my neighbor "Throbbing day today, isn't it?" Throb is a word associated with pain or passion – my neighbor might find that question odd or laden with innuendo.

Then there's the poetic phrase "coaxing pale fingers of fog." That's four uncommon words in a set of five. "Coaxing" is normally something people do, as "fingers" are something people have – this makes it as if both the East Bay and the fog are human. At this point, we've left the direct, commonplace language of the first clause entirely.

Any self-assured city might be "the city" to those who live in its orbit. Adding summer fog and "the East Bay" outlines San Francisco.

Altogether, this sentence gives us a location, starts conversational, and moves into poetry. It's promising the pleasures of company and language. Instead of grabbing, it seduces.

Red, White & Royal Blue

Another term for the first sentence is the hook. The idea here is that a first sentence must capture the reader and draw them in. The most obvious hook is a person facing a high-stakes conflict. There's none of that here.

Nonetheless, Casey McQuiston has written an intriguing sentence, and Red, White & Royal Blue was a bestseller, won a Goodreads award, and appeared on multiple best-of-the-year lists.

There's more than one way to draw in a reader, and problems are not the only pleasure of fiction.

What this sentence does have is narrative, description – we might even call it world-building – and music. Authors of previous centuries could more often capitalize words. Whenever they did, that word gains an emphasis. Three terms gain that stress here: White House, Promenade, Solarium. The last two fall at the end of their phrases, and White House near the end of its phrase, creating three sections ending in heavier beats. It's a lovely waltz.

The White House is a potent symbol. Knowing that the story takes place there adds some intrigue. Then, there are carefully chosen details in savory words to bring that location into brighter focus. Notice how specific "tucked" and "loose paneling" are. Plus, I didn't even know the White House had a Promenade and a Solarium. These facets of the scene add the pleasure of vicarious travel.

Finally, there's a small contrast between "White House" and "loose paneling." There's a bit of mystery in why the most prestigious address in the nation would need a small repair. That might imply someone who loosened the panel or someone who needs to fix it – and bring in the person with conflict – but those possibilities remain in the background.

I'm hooked. I want to read more pleasurable sentences and discover what else I will see in this powerful location.

Photo credit: Peter Griffin, CC0

Miranda in Milan

Katharine Duckett has laid the strongest word at the end of this first sentence, giving it extra emphasis. Monster carries danger and wrongness. It's interesting here to have someone find herself to be a monster. Why did Miranda not know until she came to Milan? Or was it only the gaze of the Milanese who found her monstrous, when she had been innocent before? The conflict here is Miranda versus Milan – and perhaps Miranda versus herself, as, now that she's found she is a monster, she must choose whether to embrace that or try to stop being one.

For those who are familiar with Shakespeare, the three words "Miranda," "Milan," and "monster" will strongly recall his play The Tempest. All of these words are uncommon, and important in the play, so finding the three of them in close company here is enough to tie this work to the play. Duckett further ties her story to The Tempest by including two quotes from it before the story begins. The play ends with Miranda expecting to go to Milan. So the author is also placing this book after and responding to Shakespeare's play.

The sentence has one intriguing meaning without knowing the play, and adds another level when connected to the previous work. Duckett has offered the drama of "monster" to draw the reader in and the promise of reflecting on Shakespeare to attract those who dabble in literature as a conversation over the centuries.

Angel's Island

Walter Mosley is most known for his detective fiction. He also ventures into science fiction, and this first sentence comes from one of the stories in his collection, Futureland.

The main driver of this first sentence is subtle wrongness. At first take, this is a straight-forward description. Then, wait – in what circumstances would six naked men walk in together? That's not a feature of most homes or workplaces or public venues. Nakedness, in our society, is mostly reserved to private rooms with only one or two people in them.

Next, there's a weak circle of light. To see a weak circle of light, we need a very dark background. The circle would disappear without contrast. On a stage, we see very bright circles show up against moderate lighting. Is this a stage? If so, why isn't there more light around the circle? What does it mean that the light is weak and surrounded by darkness?

Then there's "a corner of the great chamber." This weak circle is part of a large room. Many eyes could be hidden in the rest of the large chamber. These naked men are subject to the view of others they can't see. This is a subtle placing of them at the bottom of a hierarchy. They don't have the protection and celebration of standing on a stage. They can't see who might be watching them. And they are unshielded by clothing.

Look at the three adjectives: naked, weak, great. That progression, too, shows the men as unprotected and powerless and surrounded by something large and unknown. This sentence begins to outline a conflict between individuals and the system around them.

Finally, the sentence has lovely grammar. The basic subject and verb elements which create a sentence are complete in the first four words: Six naked men walked. Then, a series of phrases, each starting with a preposition, adds rhythm and motion. I'll divide the remainder of the sentence with dashes to show those breaks: into the weak circle – of light – in a corner – of the great chamber.

Walter Mosley can break the rules of grammar when he wants to. This sentence shows that he knows them and can take advantage of them as well.

The Lake

If I had been imagining the textbook form of a first sentence, it might have come out like this.

At its core, a story is a character with a problem. Tananarive Due establishes both character and problem in a single sentence here, and adds a location as well.

We have Abbie LaFleur. The name tells us a little already. She's young enough to prefer the -ie ending to the -y ending. That's a mark of informality. LaFleur has me wondering – is she of French descent? Or is the author signaling that she is in someway like or unlike a flower?

Next, we learn her family has been in Boston for three generations, and she is newly arrived in Graceville. Graceville sounds like the southern U.S. to me – possibly due to echoes of Graceland and Louisville – it's a place different from Boston, and clannish enough that the people there see the new arrival as an outsider.

The hyphen in third-generation shows some thought. It's a small detail, and makes the grouping of those words with "Bostonian" easier to follow. As an editor, I appreciated the effort. These bits of craft add up.

Finally, there's the word "warned." It points to a danger that someone should have warned Abbie LaFleur about, and didn't. Since we are working within the genre of horror, failing to warn could have been a sin – the type of moral failing that leads to someone dying gruesomely. Abbie has a problem, and she doesn't know it yet.

In one sentence, the story is wound up and ready to spring.

"The Lake" is one of the stories within The Monster's Corner, edited by Christopher Golden, as well as the first story in Due's own collection, Ghost Summer, and available online at tor.com.

Go Tell It on the Mountain

This time, I'm looking at a first sentence without having read the rest of the book. That's just what a potential reader would do! What has James Baldwin already set up, in one sentence?

We have a person, John. He hasn't grown up yet. John is a common name, and the name of one of Jesus' apostles, so it fits as the name for the son of a preacher. (James, the author's name, shares the first letter, the popularity, and the connection to an apostle as well.)

We also have the people who surround him. The narrator calls them "everyone" and they share a single opinion; the word "always" implies a long history and no breaks; "preacher" places him in a religious community; and finally, we hear his heritage: "just like his father."

That's one John against the full weight community, history, and family. James Baldwin is already promising me the story of how John rebels or finds himself against these forces. I'm interested.

I like the rhythm of this one, too. Try reading it aloud. It rolls.

Background photo created by rawpixel.com - www.freepik.com

Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand

I read Samuel R. Delany's Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand in college, and I remembered it as a wash of gorgeous language with interstellar travel and struggles with one's own desires. Today, looking for a strong first sentence, I reopened it and found this absolutely chilling line.

Delany clearly knows the extra weight a word gains at the end of a sentence. This entire opening hinges on the word "slave." Almost all the other words are simple, work-a-day, single syllable words that we use in many contexts until they are worn to neutrality. "Honesty" is a little less common, and usually refers to a virtue. "Of course" is a relaxed way to say something is normal. So here we have normality and virtue hitting the appalling concept of "slave." All the apparent banality suddenly turns into horror.

And now we have questions. Who could so casually tell someone they will be a slave? Does the person called "you" have any choice here? Why would that person find themselves at this bleak point? What happens next?

I was drawn to reading on, and continued several pages before I remembered I only came for the first sentence.

Fifth Season First

Here's the sentence that starts the first trilogy ever to win the Hugo for all three books. N. K. Jemisin had several series completed before she began this one. That's good news – more books to read if you are newly discovering her.

What does a first sentence need to do? Set the scene, make a promise, open a door into a story, entice the reader to continue. This sentence rocks it. "End of the world" raises the stakes to the top of the scale. We know this is an apocalyptic situation – this story will take place at the end and with enough scope to cover the entire world – a strong setting, a strong promise, and a strong draw to see what happens next.

But the end of the world on its own could seem overdone. Look at how the narrator undercuts that. "Let's start" – what could be after the end of the world? That creates more curiosity and drive to continue. Then "why don't we?" – a phrase that shows a certain attitude from the narrator to the audience, a little archness or playfulness, an assumption of familiarity.

Yes, I definitely want to read on after this sentence. The combination of high stakes and defined voice, in just a few words, shows writing craft at a very high level.

First Sentences – Something New

Let's play with words!

The first sentence of a book is critically important. It can be a writer's only chance to gain a reader. It sets the tone for the book and makes a promise that the following pages must deliver on.

Writing teachers call the first sentence "the hook." They recommend that authors lavish attention on it. Here, if anywhere, an author needs to be enticing.

That's quite a burden to bear!

I've been thinking about first sentences. How better to understand them than to gather some examples and take a closer look at them? As I was considering the project, I found this lovely sentence in Eloisa James' historical romance When Beauty Tamed the Beast, and I couldn't resist making it the first sentence to observe. Will it be the first of many? Time will tell.

I love this first sentence. It has rhythm – try it aloud, and it falls into these divisions: Beautiful girls / in fairy stories / are as common as / pebbles on the beach. Each of those, at least in my reading, has two strong syllables. It's a very breathable, rolling rhythm, with enough variation to sound natural and enough form to sound polished.

Then, the meanings: beautiful girls – ah, yes, that's what we come to read about in a romance; in fairy stories – oh! will this be a fairy tale then? Or will it show us how it is _not_ a fairy tale?; are as common as – a little self-awareness here, and an interesting tension – surely we would not be as interested in beauty if it was common; and finally, as pebbles on a beach – not the expected grains of sand on a beach, but pebbles – something fresher and also less comfortable. Look at how the earthy details of common pebbles contrast against the ethereal beautiful tales. There's a tension here, and I want to see how it resolves – all without directly mentioning any character who has a problem.

This is a subtle, beautiful example of a sentence that draws me in. Kudos to Eloisa James!

At the Foot of a Waterfall, a Still Pool

We are in the midst of a pandemic and many activities we took for granted are suddenly off the table. My husband had a stroke, and all the rituals we practiced together each day are on hold. Suddenly, I found myself driven to gather pictures of waterfalls on Pinterest. 

You'd think the chute of water would symbolize how out-of-control my life had proven to be. There might be something to that interpretation of why I found myself drawn to waterfalls. Yet, when I gathered them, I felt relief. As I found more examples, I started being more discriminating about the ones I kept. Slowly, I told myself what I was doing. 

The pictures of waterfalls I loved gave me a feeling of peace. 

I have a long history with rivers. The modest and lovely Chewaucan river runs through the town I grew up in. In July and August, particularly, many of us would go to The Falls, the favorite swimming hole another mile upstream from the mill. The drop where water rolled over tall stones was only a couple feet. We could scramble up, if we wished, or swim against the current to create minutes of play in a tight space. We could wade a little farther downstream, cooling off on hot afternoons, or drape ourselves on rocks to gather sun. 

The only area deep enough to swim was just past the waterfall. That small chute had dug out a deep pool. 

I feel like this is truth: great force leads to great stillness. The fastest moving, strongest currents create the deep, still pools. Activity and rest alternate, however much we resist one or the other. 

Doug is doing very well for someone who had a stroke. I called the ambulance for him on April 30th. He went to rehab on May 18th, no longer needing constant monitoring and ready to rebuild himself for new challenges. Is everything happening on the schedule I'd wish? No. Yet the new pool built by this cascade will have its depth, its loveliness, and its peace. 

Thirty Next Sentences: A Writing Exercise

I've been thinking about how in a conversation, there are actually many paths leading from each sentence.

Combine that with an idea from Lois McMaster Bujold that she may throw away her first three ideas for what happens next, and I realized I had a writing exercise on my hands. I'm going to try it here. My plan is to write one line of a conversation – a somewhat banal one – and then see if I can come up with at least thirty different next lines.

Here's the starting line, "I really like your dress."

All these lines are different choices for what the next line might be.

"Thanks, I made it myself."
"It's a Siriano, don't you love him?"
"What, this old thing?"
"Hold on, I'll just change and give it to you."
"You should have seen the one that didn't fit."
"I wanted the original, but this knockoff isn't bad."
"Do you like the shoes?"
"You're just saying that because you want to take it off."
"I'm not sure this color really works for me."
"My mom chose it."
"I like yours, too!"
"I'm trying a new style."
"Please take my card."
"Buy me a drink?"
"It's a sample of a new line. Here's our website."
"Look at the time. I really must be going."
"It's lovely, but it will dissolve at midnight. Truly fast fashion, you know?"
"The Renaissance Fair always gives me a good chance to express myself."
"The shoes are killing me."
"It took me four hours just to close the corset."
"I did want to wear something special to our anniversary dinner."
"Only the best for you."
"Only the best for me."
"Wait until you see my jacket."
"I borrowed it from my sister. Good thing we are the same size."
"Thank you."
"Silk, it's always perfect for evenings."
"Did you know that witches prefer pockets?"
"If only I lost a few more pounds, it'd hang better."
"Ah! Only my true love sees a dress instead of these prison swabs."

That's 30!

What's cool about this is that other writers would create a different list. Some of these might be in anyone's list. Some are likely to be in very few lists, whether from the particular words I chose or the relationships and stories that come to my mind when I brainstorm like this. I like how the second speaker can have a variety of attitudes. There's a big difference between replies that accept the compliment and replies that brush it off. The speaker could be happy, or defensive, or take many other stances. In even one line, I can start to imply a world other than our own. And the next line might not really relate. People do talk past each other sometimes. For story, that seems to need more context to work.

I also like how much difference a single word can make. I find the changed slant between "Only the best for you," and "Only the best for me," tasty. What if the speaker borrowed her dress from her grandmother, roommate, or brother instead?

All in all, I like this exercise. Help yourself if you want to do it, too! What other starting line might you choose?

People Who Aren't Getting Anything Done Are Helping Me Out

I'm always alert for my sister paradoxes. And here's a lively one: people who aren't getting anything done are helping me out.

First off, of course, staying home has been of major assistance in reducing the intensity of the coronavirus pandemic. It looks like a good portion of regions have started flattening the curve. Here in Washington state, we may yet keep acute cases from overwhelming our hospitals and especially our supply of respirators. May it be so! We'll need to continue the efforts and we might just assure that everyone who needs intensive care can get it. Other well-governed regions are managing as well. This massive achievement comes largely from not getting anything done: not going out, not meeting up, not traveling, not doing the work and play we usually do within coughing distance of each other.

Second, while staying home has made a hit to my productivity, a number of generous souls have also admitted they aren't getting anything done. I particularly liked this tweet from author and book reviewer Gabino Iglesias:

"Everyone has a book in them, but it takes a special kind of freak to leave the Land of Laziness, cross the Plains of Procrastination & Insecurity Mountain, kill the fear demons, find the Blade of No One Made You Do This, & use it to slice their chest open and yank that book out."

He's new to me, and his Twitter feed shows a rich way with words.

Then there's Neil Gaiman, long one of my favorite authors, talking about failing to write a book, failing to write a screenplay, and failing to identify chickens. He looks a bit down, and as usual, he's giving gifts: https://twitter.com/neilhimself/status/1247477244332654595?s=20

At first, I was underwhelmed by this offering, and it continued to grow on me. If one of the world's most celebrated authors can not act... so can I.

I began to feel better as others told their stories of not getting anything done.

Third, when I do need to go out, empty streets, clean air, and half-filled supermarkets have all made it easier to gather food and pick up prescriptions. Thank you to everyone who wasn't driving or shopping at those times.

I could extend this list indefinitely. I'm getting less junk mail, and I appreciate those who aren't sending it. I'm liking seeing more hobbies in my social media. I'm glad emissions are down, if only temporarily, and we have pretty pictures of cities without smog. Let me finish up with the most consequential reason people who aren't getting anything done are helping me out.

Fourth, I and we are getting a look at how much we do that we don't really need. It has been easy for me and us to pile up activities and push for more, and more, and more. Because I was doing them, I didn't stop to think if I needed to do them. And, partly due to the current slowdown, I discovered I was fatigued and overextended and not enjoying this lifestyle very much. Maybe others are seeing that now, too.

I'd really like for us to continue doing fewer things in favor of making sure everyone has the basics. We are ambitious – we'll probably continue to extend what "the basics" are over time. Even so, this has been a great sanity check on what we really need. And that might just be the enlightenment we need to refocus on making sure everyone has it.

A Change of Pace

I'm reading quite a bit of Twitter posts and articles about the novel coronavirus pandemic. It's a riveting story, the more so as I'm part of it. So far, my family is well. Narrowing my daily activities has worn on me some. For some reason, I felt particularly anxious when the new advice to wear masks came out. Still, we have made some at home and are doing our best.

I lost track of who called this The Great Pause. I like that name for our time of staying home more and slowing the economy. My own work has fallen quite a bit. I work from home normally. I connect with clients through email and video calls – much like more people are doing now. I did have one company that was sending me a significant portion of my work end the project I was working on. So I have fewer hours and reduced income.

My slower schedule is a good time to review my direction. Do I like the work I've been doing? Yes – I have been helping authors complete better books, both by helping them organize the work of writing and by editing. Authors are among my favorite people to work with. Most of the ones I work with want to help other people. They write books that offer wisdom and tips and hard-won experience. Or if they aim to entertain, our current situation is showing how very important good art is. Stories and images give me my most pleasant moments. Food and water and shelter and utilities are necessary; art makes dreary days bright.

When I support these authors, I help their audiences indirectly. I like spreading those ripples of help. I might like to do more directly.

On a larger scale, our society also has a chance to review our systems. A lot of them are letting us down now. We are particularly falling down on taking care of people who live in more polluted and poorer neighborhoods, people who work at minimum wage, people whose health care depends on their job – and these people are disproportionately people of color. Their extra vulnerability shows in sharp contrast right now. We rely on minimum wage workers to harvest, shelve, and ring up our food. We are closely connected to them, and to the homeless people in our neighborhoods. COVID-19 doesn't respect bank balances, and if we want food, we need the people who work to bring it. We urgently need to see that everyone in our community has a living wage and quality health care. Our diseases will be common even if our resources aren't.

I am hoping that we'll take this chance to notice our interconnection and work for a more equal society. I'm hoping that we will let go of rigid systems that we thought we couldn't do without until the pandemic came.

I don't know how high the chances are for my hopes.

On a small scale, Doug and I are living well. We are healthy, we enjoy our cats, we are eating well, we have shelter. I wish that much at least to all of you.

The Common Endeavor

I no longer remember in what book the narrator's father used the phrase "the common endeavor." I remember wondering what he meant by that. He used it to explain why he chose an action – something about being part of or contributing to the common endeavor.

What threw me, I think, is that I seldom see everyone working on the same project. Here we have people teaching classes, and there we have people stocking groceries, and here we have people refining oil, and there we have massage therapists, and here we have science fiction authors, and there we have baseball coaches. What single project could we all be working on?

Still, the phrase stuck with me.

It has something of the flavor of the phrase "a more perfect union" in the US constitution, or "member of a civilization" in the discussions of David Brin. There's an idea that we are all part of something, or, even more, we are all working to create something.

So the words "the common endeavor" kept working on me, and eventually, I realized that civilization is the common endeavor. All our own projects affect this larger entity that we are a part of. In fact, the common endeavor may be more than that – it could be our efforts to create a better civilization.

There's something old-fashioned about "the common endeavor." It comes to me with the rustle of tweed jackets and the smell of pipe tobacco. It resonates with a time, perhaps mythical, when people had a broad agreement on what a better civilization would be – when we joined together to build highways and go to the Moon. Maybe it's those broad vowels and open syllables. I often take abstract words like these and recommend making them more specific, making sure the concepts are tied to their objects. Common to who? Endeavor to what? How could he say "the common endeavor" as if we all knew who all was working on it and what they were working for?

It sounds like a phrase from a less partisan, more idealistic time. It sounds like the speaker could take for granted that all of us were working together, and we all aimed at the same goal.

What does it take to believe all people work to the same end? Trust? Blindness? Faith?

Humans have done amazing things when we have a common goal. I think it might be time to emphasize again the work that makes the world better for all of us.