As a writer, when your strength is your weakness, it’s a curse no amount of voodoo or exorcism can lift.
Some writers can ink great dialog, and hollow, two-dimensional characters to say it. I know writers who activate the senses as deftly as any poet, but, like a painter, it comes in a static, self-contained package; I know writers who can write a dynamite beginning, a wonderful middle, but can’t figure out a decent end to their story if their life (or book contract) depended on it.
My enduring strength and fatal downfall is that I arrive at great ideas, but am guilty of lousy execution. Like a cook who invents the peanut butter and beer-fried bacon taco salad, my ideas sound great in theory but are inedible in practice.
Story "ideas" are simply setups that need a punchline. Invariably when I write a short story, the idea — not the characters, sense of place, or other intrinsic element of a fictional world — becomes the story, not the fulcrum upon which it rests.
In the same spirit of the Curse of Ideas is the Curse of the First Line. I’ve seen it in many stories, both published and not: they have great first lines or first paragraphs, but such stories don’t fulfill the great promise of their birth. (In my extremely humble opinion, the the two greatest opening lines in American literature are from "Moby Dick" and "Lolita": the former of "Call me Ishmael" and the latter of "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins." But only one of them did I read beyond the first page.)
I had a great opening line to a novel, which I repeated to a friend of mine, himself a published novelist. "That’s a great opening line," he said. "It’s so good that you should just repeat it over and over again, for the whole book."
That struck me as pretty good advice.
In any case, late last evening I was inexplicably inspired, and repaired to my study to write down the following:
They lined the highway like an unbroken chain of smoke, up hills, through valleys, along rock crevices and next to abandoned farms — by 10 p.m., it took two hours to get to the checkpoint; by midnight, three hours, and by 2 a.m., when the roads were jammed to the limit, one might as well give up and hope to get back to the tent.
I’m not making claims to greatness with the above; far from it.
But I have something specific in mind for this story beyond the first sentence, and I’m curious how other people would handle the same setup.
Ajmtf Cthraaraqu?
Since we’re all creative here — creative writers, artists, accountants — what would you do with the sentence above? In the comments section, try writing a second line; write a second, third, and fourth, if you’re so motivated. It doesn’t have to be profound, poetic or even good, but reflect how the opening sentence formed your expectations as a reader.
Don’t worry, I don’t want to steal your ideas (not from here, at least).
And this isn’t a contest and I offer no prizes.
However, if I like your lines in particular, I’ll encourage you to buy something nice for yourself.
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So I’m doing the unthinkable…I’m changing the line slightly and then going on.
They lined the highway like an unbroken chain of smoke, up hills, through valleys, along rock crevices and next to abandoned farms — by 10 p.m., it took two hours to get to the checkpoint; by midnight, three hours, and by 2 a.m., when the roads were jammed to the limit, she gave up and decided to get back to the tent. She passed her daughter. She passed her brother. No one spoke.
That’s about as far as I can get without having to commit
And then the planes came.
“But the tent was gone; all that remained was a charred circle on the ground and a trail of footprints emerging from the ashes and leading into the forest.”
[next paragraph]
The sun was becoming too bright for her blinds. She buried her head in her down pillow to avoid the light, but the aroma of the pitch black breakfast blend mingling with Mark’s thick cut apple-smoked bacon was all too much. She pulled the comforter clear and stood up stumbling into a big, back cracking yawn. She searched the nightstand for her classes, and finding them, headed downstairs for breakfast.
The great duck migration had finally arrived.
verbivore: interesting — you came to the conclusion that the protagonist was a mother going somewhere with her family. obviously, they’re going somewhere… (duh)
go buy something nice for yourself.
bernita: also interesting. i wonder what the planes are for. are they dropping bombs, transporting people, or just a symbol of hope or despair?
you, too, buy something nice for yourself.
tai: fascinating. you return to the burned out tent, moving the action from the highway elsewhere.
if i were you, i would buy something nice for yourself. but i’m not you.
because: now that’s what i call taking this challenge seriously. you got a protagonist. you have a foil; you’ve got bacon; you’ve got a home. i wonder how you got there…
buy several nice things for yourself.
gloria: i have to hand it to you — you’re the only one who nailed the migration thing down perfectly. though it’s not ducks.
go buy something nice for yourself, and if you’re not in the mood, but something nice for me.
I know this isn’t what you’re looking for, but I’m not going to add a sentence, but I recommend changing that opening simile. Think about what smoke actually does, it billows, it disperses, it pushes out of the starting point, it does not “line” anything and it moves in the opposite direction of this crowd. I can see why you would want to use the smoke since it evokes a sense of despair and hints that this is the aftermath of some kind of disaster, but on the literal level, the image doesn’t hold up. I would either drop the simile or find another image.
They lined the highway like an unbroken chain of smoke, up hills, through valleys, along rock crevices and next to abandoned farms — by 10 p.m., it took two hours to get to the checkpoint; by midnight, three hours, and by 2 a.m., when the roads were jammed to the limit, one might as well give up and hope to get back to the tent.
Evacuation works two ways, though, and I was doing the peepee dance in my seat by the time we got back to the turn off. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
2nd try:
And yet we remained, and our cars crawled, the stars like jewels and the taillights gleaming read like the eyes of snakes in the grass. Somewhere, distant and wailing, the sirens began while the smoke mingled with our exhaust.
I just ate pot brownies.
There is no way in HELL I can make those words something other than jibberish.
I’m not getting anything for me, but I’m going to send you one of those wooden painted decoy ducks. Can’t wait to hear who/what is migrating. The only other thing I can think of is aliens.
I’ve rewritten my opening so many times I’ve lost count. This is the opening now:
In his dreams he can remember her name. From the shadowy first glimpses when she was peripheral, on the edge of a crowd or morphing into a friend or family member, to the day the plane lifted off from Memphis Airport bound for London and her face and body finally synchronized in mid-flight slumber. Upon waking, her image remains sharp and clear, but her name slips into the ether of his subconscious.
I love your opening line and more so, I love this post. It is right on. I appreciate the honesty and wisdom. I’m great at titles and opening paragraphs. After that, it’s work. I would love to be the girl who can outline the plot before I write, but I’m not there yet.
Here’s mine:
In fact, many of Marta’s group had given up. Tired and hungry, they dropped by the side and waved her on. She could hear the incessant chatter of aches and pains. Children pulling at their mother’s skirts begging for water, babies wailing behind her. Her own body was matted in sweat and dirt, her feet had blisters scorching hot. No matter, she tuned everything out as she stone-focused her eyes past the border guards. There was no way Marta was going to give up, this was her chance for freedom and nothing or no one would take that away from her.
Hey Bookfraud – I don’t have any suggestions, but I did write a more meaty blog post for you.
pcmart: you’re right. it’s not what i’m looking for.
writtenwyrrd: very nice, ratchet up the danger. i was definitely going for a sense of menace. and i like how the smoke mingled with exhaust — i didn’t mention autos, yet you put in in here; nice work.
go buy something nice for yourself.
j: i can’t offer you the opportunity to buy something nice for yourself, but twinkies or nachos would probably be a good alternative. especially when eaten together.
gloria: no, you buy that decoy for yourself. do you mean aliens in the sense of foreign-born peoples or those little green men that kidnapped me in their spaceship and did the anal probe last nigth?
collin: what a great opening. how many times you’ve rewritten it, don’t rewrite it again. i order you.
writer kat: thank you for the kind words; you and i seem to be in the same boat regarding openings. the first line is always energizing, and the rest, like you say, is work.
but i like what you did with my first line, especially giving a face and characterization to it. nice job.
go buy several nice things for yourself.
michele: a nice meaty blog entry from voix? i’ll have to check it out and buy something nice for meself.
Ha! Love the bacon analogy. And for whatever it’s worth, I’d love to purchase a (signed) copy of your work one of these days.
Yah, go buy something nice for yourself, bookie; dealing with the scourge of delousing the house must have been awful. Then go write something.