After years looking at the critiques board, it has become clear to me that you can tell an awful lot about a piece of writing by the first two paragraphs.
Too many people obsess about how they think a reader needs to enjoy a couple of chapters to get into it, learn to like their characters, and so forth - and in trying to look at a bigger picture, they overwhelmingly overlook the small details they should be really focused on.
Such as the first two paragraphs.
I do not exclude myself from such criticisms.
But I do think agents and editors do look at such concerns. Though most ask for the first few chapters, I suspect most will make a decision to read on after the first two paragrpahs alone, and then at the end of the first page - and so on - until you give them excuse to put it down.
You don't need grand explosions to create excitement - but a sense of tension, a sense of motion, or good use of words, can all help entice.
Anyway, I thought I'd paste a few first paragrpahs from a bunch of books published over the past year. Most were available via Staffers Book Review after they ran a nice new author intro feature last year.
I've also added a couple more from other texts put online recently.
I am *not* inviting anyone here to post their first two paragraphs. That is not the point of this thread. The point is instead for you to look at your opening two paragraphs, and compare it to these novels, which are recently published or are scheduled for release.
Look at them. Look at the devices being used (you should know them by now, and if not, learn them) - and by all means discuss these in this thread.
But don't post your own openings - instead go back and look at it yourself - look at the devices you are using and compare.
Which of the openings below do you find are weaker? Which are stronger? Why? Now look at your own.
Just a little exercise in case it helps.
King of Thorns by Mark Lawrence
I took myself to the courtyard where my levies, subjects, and bannermen waited, crowded rank upon rank before the gatehouse. Knights from Morrow to the left of the portcullis, armour gleaming, swords in hand. To the right more knights, plate- armoured, the noblest sons of Hodd Town, my capital down in the valleys to the north. No doubt they had come to win the king’s favour and honour for their houses. Young men in the main, soft with gold and more used to lance and tourney than blood and ruin. I saw Sir Elmar of Golden among them, his armour radiant as his name implied. A warrior, that one, despite his finery.
They had some strength among them. Crowded on the gallery and stairs, crossbow men from the Westfast under Lord Scoolar, hard-eyed and wind-burned. Packed before the splintering gate, men of the Hauntside, tough fighters from the hills, in leather and iron, axes honed, round wooden shields layered in goat- hide. Behind these, warriors from Far Range, their iron helms patterned with silver and tin, each man armed with hammer and hatchet. And to the rear, ranked before the keep wall, Cennat shield dancers, their warboards taller than a man.
The Garden by Teresa Frohock
Cloaked in a haze of smoke and dust, the sun went down on the city of Épila. The clamor barely settled over the battlefield when the royal señors ordered the King’s caballeros to search for survivors and plunder. No one held much hope for either. Unlike the sun, Épila would not rise at dawn.
Guillermo reined his skittish horse to a halt midway down the alley and scanned the smoldering buildings for any sign of movement. Smoke wisped across the ground where bits of pottery and scattered furniture laid discarded and broken.
Blues Skies from Pain by Stina Leicht
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Ned McCoy said, pulling a pistol from his pocket. Something in his voice said he almost regretted the request.
Liam left his hands on the steering wheel of the idling RS, and attempted to hide his nerves behind his balaclava. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. However, he supposed a certain amount of anxiety would be expected in anyone facing the business end of a gun. “Am thinking of having a cig. Is that all right with you?”
The Tainted City by Courtney Schafer
I wedged my fingers higher in the crack snaking up the boulder’s overhanging face. A push of a foot, a twist of my body, and the overhang’s lip was nearly within reach. Good thing, since I had to finish this little warm-up climb fast, or risk a whipping if the shift bell rang before I got to the mine. Dawn’s light already streaked the gorge rim far above me with gold, though it’d be mid-morning before the sun rose high enough to touch the reedy mudflats here in the gorge’s depths. Beyond my boulder, clumps of men in grime-streaked coveralls trudged toward the yawning black mouth at the base of the cliffs. Lights bobbed in jerky rhythms within the tunnel as the night haulers hurried to finish sacking their quota of coal.
“Spend one instant longer crawling up that rock instead of joining your crew, boy, and I’ll choke you blind.”
Trinity Rising by Elspeth Cooper
It was almost Ninth when Sorchal ambled along the covered walk at the side of the practice yard, his coat over his shoulder and his shirt untucked. Gair turned from first position and propped his sword point-down in the dust in front of him, leaning on the pommel. This was the third time this week the Elethrainian had let him down.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said dryly.
Rapture by Kameron Hurley
Every time Nyx thought she’d gotten out of the business of killing boys, she shot another one.
He lay bleeding at her feet as the spectators for the weekly fights streamed past, muddying the dusty street with his blood. She had not meant to shoot him, but she was drunk, a common condition during her exile. The boy had grabbed clumsily at the knot of her dhoti where she kept her currency. Her response had been unthinking, like breathing. She had pulled the scattergun from her hip and shot him in the chest. It was the only weapon she carried, these days, because she was generally such a poor shot. After nearly seven years in exile without incident, she hadn’t expected she’d ever use it. What a boy his age was doing on the street instead of at the front, she didn’t know. He was likely a deserter anyway.
The Merchant of Dreams by Anne Lyle
Mal leant over the ship’s rail, scanning the shore for any sign of a wreck. The mistral had swept the sky bare, leaving the coast etched in hard lines by the cold clear light of a January morn.
“There,” he said at last, pointing to a dark shape on the beach.
The Straits of Galahesh by Bradley P. Beaulieu
The akhoz galloped more than ran, their long limbs loping over the ground faster than it appeared they could. Their lips were drawn back, their dark tongues hidden behind blackened teeth, making them appear vengeful and ravenous.
Nasim’s sandals scraped over the ancient stone. His nerves willed him to flee. But he would not. This girl, this very girl, was the first of the akhoz. There was little that remained of Yadhan, but he recognized her by the shape and tilt of her head, her delicate features, and the small scar at the nape of her neck.
Knifesworn by Mazarkis Williams
Thrashing churned the water, white foam, tinged brown with river mud. Grada knelt on a broad stone bedded in the shoreline, her arms elbow deep, wringing as she had wrung out the robes of the wealthy many times before.
Muscles bunched across her shoulders. Jenna had always said she was strong. Ox-strong, head-strong.
The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch
Place ten dozen hungry orphan thieves in a dank burrow of vaults and tunnels beneath what used to be a graveyard, and put them under the supervision of a single somewhat crippled grown man, and you will soon find that governing them becomes a delicate business.
The Thiefmaker, that skulking eminence who ruled the orphan kingdom beneath Shades‘ Hill in old Camorr, was not yet so decrepit that any one of his grimy little wards could hope to stand alone against him. Nonetheless, he was well aware of the doom that lurked in the clutching hands, hungry bellies, and wolfish impulses of a mob-- a mob that he, through his training, was striving to make more predatory still with each passing day. The veneer of order that his life depended on was thin as damp parchment at the best of times.
The Winds of Winter by George R R Martin
On the morning that she left the Water Gardens, her father rose from his chair to kiss her on both cheeks. "The fate of Dorne goes with you, daughter," he said, as he pressed the parchment into her hand. "Go swiftly, go safely, be my eyes and ears and voice... but most of all, take care."
"I will, Father." She did not shed a tear. Arianne Martell was a princess of Dorne, and Dornishmen did not waste water lightly. It was a near thing, though. It was not her father's kisses nor his hoarse words that made her eyes glisten, but the effort that brought him to his feet, his legs trembling under him, his joints swollen and inflamed with gout. Standing was an act of love. Standing was an act of faith.
Too many people obsess about how they think a reader needs to enjoy a couple of chapters to get into it, learn to like their characters, and so forth - and in trying to look at a bigger picture, they overwhelmingly overlook the small details they should be really focused on.
Such as the first two paragraphs.
I do not exclude myself from such criticisms.
But I do think agents and editors do look at such concerns. Though most ask for the first few chapters, I suspect most will make a decision to read on after the first two paragrpahs alone, and then at the end of the first page - and so on - until you give them excuse to put it down.
You don't need grand explosions to create excitement - but a sense of tension, a sense of motion, or good use of words, can all help entice.
Anyway, I thought I'd paste a few first paragrpahs from a bunch of books published over the past year. Most were available via Staffers Book Review after they ran a nice new author intro feature last year.
I've also added a couple more from other texts put online recently.
I am *not* inviting anyone here to post their first two paragraphs. That is not the point of this thread. The point is instead for you to look at your opening two paragraphs, and compare it to these novels, which are recently published or are scheduled for release.
Look at them. Look at the devices being used (you should know them by now, and if not, learn them) - and by all means discuss these in this thread.
But don't post your own openings - instead go back and look at it yourself - look at the devices you are using and compare.
Which of the openings below do you find are weaker? Which are stronger? Why? Now look at your own.
Just a little exercise in case it helps.
King of Thorns by Mark Lawrence
I took myself to the courtyard where my levies, subjects, and bannermen waited, crowded rank upon rank before the gatehouse. Knights from Morrow to the left of the portcullis, armour gleaming, swords in hand. To the right more knights, plate- armoured, the noblest sons of Hodd Town, my capital down in the valleys to the north. No doubt they had come to win the king’s favour and honour for their houses. Young men in the main, soft with gold and more used to lance and tourney than blood and ruin. I saw Sir Elmar of Golden among them, his armour radiant as his name implied. A warrior, that one, despite his finery.
They had some strength among them. Crowded on the gallery and stairs, crossbow men from the Westfast under Lord Scoolar, hard-eyed and wind-burned. Packed before the splintering gate, men of the Hauntside, tough fighters from the hills, in leather and iron, axes honed, round wooden shields layered in goat- hide. Behind these, warriors from Far Range, their iron helms patterned with silver and tin, each man armed with hammer and hatchet. And to the rear, ranked before the keep wall, Cennat shield dancers, their warboards taller than a man.
The Garden by Teresa Frohock
Cloaked in a haze of smoke and dust, the sun went down on the city of Épila. The clamor barely settled over the battlefield when the royal señors ordered the King’s caballeros to search for survivors and plunder. No one held much hope for either. Unlike the sun, Épila would not rise at dawn.
Guillermo reined his skittish horse to a halt midway down the alley and scanned the smoldering buildings for any sign of movement. Smoke wisped across the ground where bits of pottery and scattered furniture laid discarded and broken.
Blues Skies from Pain by Stina Leicht
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Ned McCoy said, pulling a pistol from his pocket. Something in his voice said he almost regretted the request.
Liam left his hands on the steering wheel of the idling RS, and attempted to hide his nerves behind his balaclava. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. However, he supposed a certain amount of anxiety would be expected in anyone facing the business end of a gun. “Am thinking of having a cig. Is that all right with you?”
The Tainted City by Courtney Schafer
I wedged my fingers higher in the crack snaking up the boulder’s overhanging face. A push of a foot, a twist of my body, and the overhang’s lip was nearly within reach. Good thing, since I had to finish this little warm-up climb fast, or risk a whipping if the shift bell rang before I got to the mine. Dawn’s light already streaked the gorge rim far above me with gold, though it’d be mid-morning before the sun rose high enough to touch the reedy mudflats here in the gorge’s depths. Beyond my boulder, clumps of men in grime-streaked coveralls trudged toward the yawning black mouth at the base of the cliffs. Lights bobbed in jerky rhythms within the tunnel as the night haulers hurried to finish sacking their quota of coal.
“Spend one instant longer crawling up that rock instead of joining your crew, boy, and I’ll choke you blind.”
Trinity Rising by Elspeth Cooper
It was almost Ninth when Sorchal ambled along the covered walk at the side of the practice yard, his coat over his shoulder and his shirt untucked. Gair turned from first position and propped his sword point-down in the dust in front of him, leaning on the pommel. This was the third time this week the Elethrainian had let him down.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said dryly.
Rapture by Kameron Hurley
Every time Nyx thought she’d gotten out of the business of killing boys, she shot another one.
He lay bleeding at her feet as the spectators for the weekly fights streamed past, muddying the dusty street with his blood. She had not meant to shoot him, but she was drunk, a common condition during her exile. The boy had grabbed clumsily at the knot of her dhoti where she kept her currency. Her response had been unthinking, like breathing. She had pulled the scattergun from her hip and shot him in the chest. It was the only weapon she carried, these days, because she was generally such a poor shot. After nearly seven years in exile without incident, she hadn’t expected she’d ever use it. What a boy his age was doing on the street instead of at the front, she didn’t know. He was likely a deserter anyway.
The Merchant of Dreams by Anne Lyle
Mal leant over the ship’s rail, scanning the shore for any sign of a wreck. The mistral had swept the sky bare, leaving the coast etched in hard lines by the cold clear light of a January morn.
“There,” he said at last, pointing to a dark shape on the beach.
The Straits of Galahesh by Bradley P. Beaulieu
The akhoz galloped more than ran, their long limbs loping over the ground faster than it appeared they could. Their lips were drawn back, their dark tongues hidden behind blackened teeth, making them appear vengeful and ravenous.
Nasim’s sandals scraped over the ancient stone. His nerves willed him to flee. But he would not. This girl, this very girl, was the first of the akhoz. There was little that remained of Yadhan, but he recognized her by the shape and tilt of her head, her delicate features, and the small scar at the nape of her neck.
Knifesworn by Mazarkis Williams
Thrashing churned the water, white foam, tinged brown with river mud. Grada knelt on a broad stone bedded in the shoreline, her arms elbow deep, wringing as she had wrung out the robes of the wealthy many times before.
Muscles bunched across her shoulders. Jenna had always said she was strong. Ox-strong, head-strong.
The Republic of Thieves by Scott Lynch
Place ten dozen hungry orphan thieves in a dank burrow of vaults and tunnels beneath what used to be a graveyard, and put them under the supervision of a single somewhat crippled grown man, and you will soon find that governing them becomes a delicate business.
The Thiefmaker, that skulking eminence who ruled the orphan kingdom beneath Shades‘ Hill in old Camorr, was not yet so decrepit that any one of his grimy little wards could hope to stand alone against him. Nonetheless, he was well aware of the doom that lurked in the clutching hands, hungry bellies, and wolfish impulses of a mob-- a mob that he, through his training, was striving to make more predatory still with each passing day. The veneer of order that his life depended on was thin as damp parchment at the best of times.
The Winds of Winter by George R R Martin
On the morning that she left the Water Gardens, her father rose from his chair to kiss her on both cheeks. "The fate of Dorne goes with you, daughter," he said, as he pressed the parchment into her hand. "Go swiftly, go safely, be my eyes and ears and voice... but most of all, take care."
"I will, Father." She did not shed a tear. Arianne Martell was a princess of Dorne, and Dornishmen did not waste water lightly. It was a near thing, though. It was not her father's kisses nor his hoarse words that made her eyes glisten, but the effort that brought him to his feet, his legs trembling under him, his joints swollen and inflamed with gout. Standing was an act of love. Standing was an act of faith.
