I'm having a bit of a crisis of faith here. Willie Weekes is my MC, and this is his opening. It is softer than the original which finds him waking in the middle of the night to find himself covered in feathers. This one is more mundane and voicey whereas his initial introduction was more actiony.
The previous 1030 words have introduced the second-main character, Kate, his best friend. She's just found a skinned man hanging upside down, naked, from the chandelier in the dining room of her well-appointed home in Lowe.
In draft 3, the story opened in 1178 and now I won't introduce that timeline till chapter 2 or 3. I want it to come out of the blue, and I didn't want the story to open up in the Middle Ages in case it suggests to the reader that the main story will be set in that period. The story's main arc is set in present day.
The crisis of faith I'm having is whether it is a bad idea to start with Kate instead of Willie, but her chapter opening is just more hooky (and his feathers-in-the-bed scene happens much later now) and forms a nice psychopomp element. Not to mention her house sits on the eponymous sour ground.
I'll paste Willie's scene here but I'm not really looking for a line edit etc, but just some general comments on whether it should be the opener. I hope that makes sense.
Thanks. (oh, and there's some slight language...)
So...
The thundercloud over Willie’s head was nowhere near as black as the one in his soul. Three-hour workshops trying to engage abhorrent year 11 students in art (a subject those idiot creatures chose themselves) was as tricky as catching eels with chopsticks - much better to use a chainsaw or rivet gun. He’d left the college as soon as the workshop ended instead of chatting with the faculty, and the remaining students who hadn’t been kicked out (just how many crudely drawn dick pics could one class produce? They weren’t even anatomically correct).
To Willie the issue was clear: Pretty much everywhere you looked today someone - whatever age - was taking something that didn’t belong to them. With the students, it was a simple case of turning up to class with an ‘okay, what have you got for me’ attitude. Maybe school was where we cut our teeth and learnt to take from others. The image of his oil canvas Entitled Appropriation flickered across his mind.
He stomped through the light but annoying rain - it’s f****** July - with his toes curled up inside his shoes to avoid the wetness coming in from the worn soles. On the pavement, as if the flagstones were impressionist canvases, a slick veneer flickered with orange and blue reflections. He looked up to see police and utility vans clustered ahead. That’s the gallery!
He picked up his pace; please not a fire. He’d no contents insurance - he’d given up trying to sort that out when explaining that his studio and gallery were his home and his workplace. He’d had a strong sense of being misled, to pay a higher premium, so he’d put the issue aside, and not thought about it since. That was six years ago.
Gas, electric, water and police. All those agencies were represented outside the parade of shops that included his gallery. And two fire engines.
No ambulances; no one hurt, then.
Even as he walked into the area it was being cordoned off. Two curmudgeonly looking men - the kind you’d see on the side of a Toby Jug, minus the smile - were coiling bumblebee hazard tape around lampposts and wooden A-frames. Whatever had happened, had just happened.
The pavement was blocked by a tall red and white panel that seemed to defy gravity until he saw a corned-beef skinned policeman behind was propping it up. He was about to ask the man, who looked of similar age to him what had happened.
‘Not this way, son,’ the policeman said, shaking his head. He had a drip on the end of his nose that Willie hoped was rain.
‘Son?’ Willie aimed for good-natured breeziness. ‘There’s a compliment!’
‘The road’s closed,’
‘So how will I get home, officer?’
‘Go round.’ It was an impatient bark.
This muppet’s a policeman? God help us. ‘I live there!’ Willie said, peevishly, more disappointed with himself for wasting time trying to make pleasantries with such a thankless functionary. He jabbed a finger at the area behind the clutter of vans and fire engines.
The policeman’s manner switched. ‘Oh, Mr Weekes?’
‘Yes.’
The officer stepped away from the flimsy barrier, catching it as it dropped, and gestured for him to pass.
Willie thanked him with a cursory nod and scooted through, weaving between the muddle of municipal personnel.
Now he was at a better angle, and the nearest fire engine was out the way, he saw the gallery building - all three storeys were draped in a dirty white tarpaulin that appeared to breathe languidly in the light breeze.
‘Hey!’ Willie shouted, hurrying towards his home. ‘HEY! Can someone tell me what’s going on?’
Two insectoid men in white coveralls and odd breathing apparatus turned to see him. Why were they in isolation if everyone else milling around wasn’t?
‘What’s going on?’
The pair of them looked at each other idiotically and just as Willie was deciding whether to rip their hooded masks off, or push past them, PC Charisma showed up.
‘Sorry, Mr Weekes, please come with me,’ he said and tried to usher Willie aside to what looked like a country fayre tea and cake tent. Inside a short woman with a long face was berating another jobsworth about something. She looked familiar.
‘Why are you fumigating my gallery?’ Willie asked, too aggressively, trying to ignore the water drop which still hung from Charisma’s nose. As he said it he noticed the short woman’s argument peter out and her eyes bearing on him.
‘Your....er, the property is not being fumigated...’
‘What are you doing, then?’
‘It’s not the Met who—’
The short woman interrupted him. ‘Mr Weekes? I’m Nancy Cooke from Look! London. I wonder if you’d have time for a quick interview?’
Ah, yes, it was that angry journalist from TV. He knew she’d looked familiar, and judging by the argument she’d been having with the jobsworth, she was just as pugnacious offscreen as on.
‘I don’t even know what’s going on - you’re far more on the ball than me,’ Willie said.
She didn’t dance around; ‘A sinkhole has swallowed your property,’ she said.
Reeling, he was only vaguely aware of her being forcefully escorted away.
What’s a sinkhole, again? he thought, then passed out.
The previous 1030 words have introduced the second-main character, Kate, his best friend. She's just found a skinned man hanging upside down, naked, from the chandelier in the dining room of her well-appointed home in Lowe.
In draft 3, the story opened in 1178 and now I won't introduce that timeline till chapter 2 or 3. I want it to come out of the blue, and I didn't want the story to open up in the Middle Ages in case it suggests to the reader that the main story will be set in that period. The story's main arc is set in present day.
The crisis of faith I'm having is whether it is a bad idea to start with Kate instead of Willie, but her chapter opening is just more hooky (and his feathers-in-the-bed scene happens much later now) and forms a nice psychopomp element. Not to mention her house sits on the eponymous sour ground.
I'll paste Willie's scene here but I'm not really looking for a line edit etc, but just some general comments on whether it should be the opener. I hope that makes sense.
Thanks. (oh, and there's some slight language...)
So...
The thundercloud over Willie’s head was nowhere near as black as the one in his soul. Three-hour workshops trying to engage abhorrent year 11 students in art (a subject those idiot creatures chose themselves) was as tricky as catching eels with chopsticks - much better to use a chainsaw or rivet gun. He’d left the college as soon as the workshop ended instead of chatting with the faculty, and the remaining students who hadn’t been kicked out (just how many crudely drawn dick pics could one class produce? They weren’t even anatomically correct).
To Willie the issue was clear: Pretty much everywhere you looked today someone - whatever age - was taking something that didn’t belong to them. With the students, it was a simple case of turning up to class with an ‘okay, what have you got for me’ attitude. Maybe school was where we cut our teeth and learnt to take from others. The image of his oil canvas Entitled Appropriation flickered across his mind.
He stomped through the light but annoying rain - it’s f****** July - with his toes curled up inside his shoes to avoid the wetness coming in from the worn soles. On the pavement, as if the flagstones were impressionist canvases, a slick veneer flickered with orange and blue reflections. He looked up to see police and utility vans clustered ahead. That’s the gallery!
He picked up his pace; please not a fire. He’d no contents insurance - he’d given up trying to sort that out when explaining that his studio and gallery were his home and his workplace. He’d had a strong sense of being misled, to pay a higher premium, so he’d put the issue aside, and not thought about it since. That was six years ago.
Gas, electric, water and police. All those agencies were represented outside the parade of shops that included his gallery. And two fire engines.
No ambulances; no one hurt, then.
Even as he walked into the area it was being cordoned off. Two curmudgeonly looking men - the kind you’d see on the side of a Toby Jug, minus the smile - were coiling bumblebee hazard tape around lampposts and wooden A-frames. Whatever had happened, had just happened.
The pavement was blocked by a tall red and white panel that seemed to defy gravity until he saw a corned-beef skinned policeman behind was propping it up. He was about to ask the man, who looked of similar age to him what had happened.
‘Not this way, son,’ the policeman said, shaking his head. He had a drip on the end of his nose that Willie hoped was rain.
‘Son?’ Willie aimed for good-natured breeziness. ‘There’s a compliment!’
‘The road’s closed,’
‘So how will I get home, officer?’
‘Go round.’ It was an impatient bark.
This muppet’s a policeman? God help us. ‘I live there!’ Willie said, peevishly, more disappointed with himself for wasting time trying to make pleasantries with such a thankless functionary. He jabbed a finger at the area behind the clutter of vans and fire engines.
The policeman’s manner switched. ‘Oh, Mr Weekes?’
‘Yes.’
The officer stepped away from the flimsy barrier, catching it as it dropped, and gestured for him to pass.
Willie thanked him with a cursory nod and scooted through, weaving between the muddle of municipal personnel.
Now he was at a better angle, and the nearest fire engine was out the way, he saw the gallery building - all three storeys were draped in a dirty white tarpaulin that appeared to breathe languidly in the light breeze.
‘Hey!’ Willie shouted, hurrying towards his home. ‘HEY! Can someone tell me what’s going on?’
Two insectoid men in white coveralls and odd breathing apparatus turned to see him. Why were they in isolation if everyone else milling around wasn’t?
‘What’s going on?’
The pair of them looked at each other idiotically and just as Willie was deciding whether to rip their hooded masks off, or push past them, PC Charisma showed up.
‘Sorry, Mr Weekes, please come with me,’ he said and tried to usher Willie aside to what looked like a country fayre tea and cake tent. Inside a short woman with a long face was berating another jobsworth about something. She looked familiar.
‘Why are you fumigating my gallery?’ Willie asked, too aggressively, trying to ignore the water drop which still hung from Charisma’s nose. As he said it he noticed the short woman’s argument peter out and her eyes bearing on him.
‘Your....er, the property is not being fumigated...’
‘What are you doing, then?’
‘It’s not the Met who—’
The short woman interrupted him. ‘Mr Weekes? I’m Nancy Cooke from Look! London. I wonder if you’d have time for a quick interview?’
Ah, yes, it was that angry journalist from TV. He knew she’d looked familiar, and judging by the argument she’d been having with the jobsworth, she was just as pugnacious offscreen as on.
‘I don’t even know what’s going on - you’re far more on the ball than me,’ Willie said.
She didn’t dance around; ‘A sinkhole has swallowed your property,’ she said.
Reeling, he was only vaguely aware of her being forcefully escorted away.
What’s a sinkhole, again? he thought, then passed out.
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