A lot has been said about the importance of opening lines. How they have to grab the reader from the first word. How it’s like a good chat up line. On the other hand . . .

Some research was once done into chat up lines that actually work. Perhaps not surprisingly, “Do you come here often?”, “Are they missing an angel in heaven?”, “My place or yours?” didn’t have a lot of success outside of the chancer’s head. However, the kind of line that had the most effect was something like, “Hi, my name’s Zak. I hope you don’t mind me talking to you. I’m a bit nervous but I just had to come over and say hello . . . “

Okay, I’m not suggesting that would make a good opening line to a story but the point is that snappy one-liners tend to lack the honest conviction of the bumbling Romeo who’s summoned all his courage to make a bold statement to a total stranger about how he actually feels. I do believe the opening has to be honest to the intent of the story. Nothing wrong with capturing the reader’s attention but don’t do it with gimmicks and wise-cracks (that probably aren’t anyway); do it with the mood and tone of the story.

It might be best to try explain this with actual examples. First, here is the opening to my story, ‘Big Dave’s in Love’ (which won the New Scientist/Arc SF short fiction award in 2012):

I skip down the street like I got sherbet up me backside. I sweep me arms wide and sing to the pigeons and the cats and the bespectacled mice what study form under the bookie’s shop floor.

“What’s up, Jack?” says one of the cats.

I should hold back the news, at least until I make it to the public bar of The Airpod and Nanomule. Then again, everyone in Gaffville deserves to hear the glad tidings.

“Big Dave’s in love!” I shout, so loud I even gain the attention of the rebellious rooks on the multi-coloured cogni-nylon thatched roofs. Other less cynical birds whoop and coo and shake their feathers in sheer joy. And I do a leap to click my boot heels together because this is what we’ve all needed to save us, ain’t it the truth.

 I started this story with just an image and a tone, not knowing how it would end. In fact, I wrote the first page or so then it took me over a year to find the rest of the story and finish it. What I wanted the story to do was reflect the humour and exuberance that I find in many of my relatives from the East End of London, off-setting a little of the irritation I feel that most of the time people from that part of the country are portrayed in books, TV and film as self-centred thickos.

I also wanted to establish the world we were in but as naturally as possible, seeing it through Jack’s eyes. So, we learn that in Gaffville animals talk and even the houses can respond to outside influences. We also are shown the point of the story which is that whatever Gaffville and its inhabitants actually are, their future depends on Big Dave falling in love. This suggest, perhaps, that Jack and the others are not quite real; that Dave is perhaps their owner, that they may be his very advanced toys.           

But possibly the tone is the most important element, and for that I had to just launch myself into it; show it, in other words, not tell it.           

How do you do that? First, you have to commit to it, rather than try to control it. This is a subtle balance to get right. Clearly, the author is in control of the story, at least in terms of the plot (even if it does a twist at the end he didn’t anticipate, he still has to control the factors that can allow such a twist to occur organically).           

So, you let the tone carry your voice within the story. To a degree, I had to become Jack and let his needs, his voice, his character lead the actual prose. You want your character to eventually arrive at the plot resolution that makes your story work; but you want him to be more like a curious child on the journey than a properly kitted out professional rambler, following his map and compass, sticking closely to the designated path.           

How do you know if you’ve succeeded? I think it’s when the reader feels immersed in a story, rather than just admiring it from the outside.           

Here’s the opening of a story called ‘[Dragon]’ which appeared in Realms of Fantasy:

Gertrude ran, stomping the white marble squares of her bedroom, making sure her boots never landed on a line. The black glass doors to her balcony stood open, a pink moon peeping over the balustrade; she reached the last square and jumped.

            “Ow–Gert!” said her father. “You’re getting much too heavy for this.” But he smiled and didn’t put her down right away, so she wrapped her legs around his waist, satisfied that for once she’d made him stagger back a pace.

            “You could have let me jump over the balcony,” she said. “The dragon would have saved me.”

Here, the fact the title is in brackets is significant, supported by Gertrude’s sarcastic reference to ‘the dragon’. I wanted to tip off the reader that this was not a story about a typical dragon; that it was perhaps more representative of the change in character that Gertrude needs to go through if she’s to succeed in her destiny (which is to be a ruling monarch in a land that hasn’t seen a female ruler for many years).           

Essentially, it’s a Young Adult story so I wanted to establish the tone as such. Therefore, the prose is in Gertrude’s point of view, a girl who is on the point of having to become a woman. Which is why we see her on the one hand running around her bedroom in boots but on the other grown up enough that her father has trouble holding her. And her comment about the dragon shows she is developing a teenager’s natural desire to question of authority.           

Interestingly, this story appeared in an issue which dealt with certain tropes of Fantasy, but none of them in a way that might be expected.           

This is the opening to my story, ‘A Most Notorious Woman’, which appeared in Albedo One:

The most powerful woman in England put out her hand to the most powerful woman in Ireland, and the witnesses held their breath. Quartermaster Harris watched, fascinated, disguised as a courtier.

Elizabeth’s white, oblong, face and black, sharp eyes glinted with what might have been curiosity but could just as easily have been displeasure. She wore white silk, embroidered with pearls the size of coffee beans, under a mantle of black silk shot through with silver threads, the end of her long train carried by a marchioness. Her white powdered chest was mostly uncovered, broken by a gold collar studded with fabulous jewels. Her auburn hair, obviously false, supported a small but ornate gold crown.

Despite the finery and status of the English Queen, her guest captured Harris’s attention — in her mid-sixties, like the Queen, but with a face full of weathered lines. She wore a long saffron leine — a simple robe with billowing sleeves — under a plain green dress and long, woollen cloak. Her naturally red hair, now streaked with grey, was held back by a simple silver pin. A little taller than the Queen, she took the English monarch’s hand and said, in Latin, “I am honoured to be invited to your majesty’s magnificent palace at Greenwich, and subject myself to your will.”

At this, the tension increased further amongst the surrounding dignitaries, courtiers, ambassadors and servants. For, although the Irish Queen had formally acceded to the English sovereign, it was more than apparent, by her bearing and holding of the Queen’s gaze, that she saw herself as an equal.

       After a long moment, Elizabeth’s lips parted in a smile, displaying sugar-blackened teeth. “Welcome to my court, Grace O’Malley,” she said. “I have heard much about you and would now hear the truth from your own lips.”

This is a very different opening to the previous two, of course, but then it has a different job to do. Essentially, the story is a ripping yarn, involving pirates, talking sea serpents, love and death. But it’s also based on a real person: Grace O’Malley the Irish ‘Pirate Queen’, sometimes also known as ‘A Most Notorious Woman’. Partly because it’s a longer story than normal, I thought it could start slower than perhaps is usual for a shorter tale. It seemed worth taking the time, not just to build a picture of Grace’s world, but also of her strength of character, especially since that is the backbone of the story.           

This scene is based on true events. Grace really was summoned to Elizabeth’s court, mainly to answer to charges of piracy; and her wealth was certainly based on piracy. However, although it isn’t clear why, Elizabeth pardoned Grace at this meeting. And I thought that would be a good starting point: to show that even as an older woman, Grace had the character, charm, and desire to win others to her way, even the most powerful woman in Britain it seemed.

The opening of a story, then, has to establish the following, but not in equal amounts necessarily:

TONE

FEEL

INTENT

VOICE

PROSE STYLE

MOOD           

But it doesn’t happen through the author working out precisely what each of these means and exactly how to portray them. He has to bundle it all up into his will, in something like the way he would carry within him the essence of a close friend, in this case his main character, then let it loose.           

Essentially, he’s looking for a balance between world-setting and fun. Readers want to enjoy themselves, whatever genre they’re into. But they also want to be educated and convinced about the world they’re going to give themselves to, if only for the twenty minutes or so it takes to read a short story.           

Which brings us back to honesty. A wise-crack leading to a predictable plot involving a generic character in a tired setting is just cheating the reader. It’s not satisfying for the writer, either, unless he’s the kind who measures success strictly in terms of output rather than quality of mood, magic and morality.           

And morality is the last point I want to make about openings. Everyone knows a writer shouldn’t moralise to his readers. But at the same time, a story without a moral core is like an only mildly amusing joke. Characters that stay in the memory, making actions that thrill us, living in worlds we wish we could visit, stem from the author having some kind of moral point of passion driving him.           

I’m using ‘morality’ in perhaps a wider sense than normal here; to mean having a position about; a view on; a desire to see a truth expressed.           

As said, with ‘Big Dave’s in Love’ I wanted to show the warmth and intelligence of East End people that is a large my experience. With ‘[Dragon]’ I wanted to explore what might be closer to the original truth of dragons: as Earth spirit manifestations that can be joined by a human but always with the price of change the cost. With ‘A Most Notorious Woman’ I wanted to explore for modern readers the psychology of a person who doesn’t equivocate and moderate her passions in the way we’re encouraged to do today.           

I’ve talked before about the seven-point plot structure used by many authors and which has the opening three elements:

CHARACTER in a

SETTING with a

PROBLEM           

These make a good skeleton for a story but of course it’s the flesh that a reader is really interested in.           

Too often, writers follow these plot formats with the religious devotion of those who can’t work out their own faith. All that results is a predictable story with predictable quasi-emotions. I once read a story by a very famous FS/Fantasy writer which centred around a good idea. Unfortunately, he hadn’t taken the time or effort to get inside what the idea meant for him, to give the story feel and tone and intent. About half way through, he needed the reader to feel empathy with the main character. So he gave her one terrible illness after another, to the point the fact she survived as long as she did was actually funny instead of tragic.           

The last thing, then, you want your opening to do is tick structure boxes to the point where even the reader least interested in craft can see it all coming a mile off. Instead, you want your opening to fire inspiration, wonder, magic, or simply an unusual emotion; then the structure is a subtle, unseen guide for that magic, not a series of coloured indicator flags around a race track.