Win often says to students, “Where do you start you story? With this, The trouble started on Wednesday.” Begin your story on Wednesday, not on Sunday. Sunday is back story. (Be bold. Begin with dialog, if that feels right.)
When we edit manuscripts, we often see the first pages rambling around the block, shuffling their feet and staring up into the sky. Then we discover the first sentence, and perhaps an opening paragraph, on page fifteen. Eureka!
This way of wandering around the block must be quite old, because Homer pointed his finger at writers and said, “Begin the story in media res!” In the middle of things.
Here we offer sentences from four different books, sentences found in the middle. Your task, should you choose to accept it? Create a short graph, several graphs, or a page – wherever you imagination takes you – and begin it using one of these four. Have fun. Writing is all about the joy!
……….
“He appreciated my honesty and understood exactly what I was saying. After our lunch, I had a changed person on my hands.” — The Pursuit of WOW! , Tom Peters
“He returns with a cardboard box, which he sets on the floor next to his sofa. From it removes four thick three-ringed binders, all matched and perfectly organized. He places them on the wicker table and says, ‘This is the story of…’.” — Calico Joe, John Grisham
“’We’re going to watch you all the time you’re in town,’” Jesse said.
“’But you’re not going to harass me.’”
“’If we can put a case together on you, we’ll arrest you,’” Jesse said.
“’Until then?’” Crow said.
“’We’ll wait and…,’” Jesse said. — Stranger in Paradise, Robert B. Parker.
“Sara lives today at Colonia Roma. She has her grandchildren. We see each other seldom, yet we share an unspoken sisterhood. That night in the garden here at my father’s house, Gustavo said to me that those who have suffered great pain of injury or loss are joined to one another with bonds of a special authority and so it has proved to be. The closest bonds are those…” – All the Pretty Horses, Cormac McCarthy
……….
So choose a middle from the above, and make it a beginning!
Best! Meredith & Win
About Meredith and Win Blevins
This was an interesting exercise. Really got me to thinking. At first I didn’t think I could do it. It may not be the greatest, but here’s what I came up with:
He appreciated my honesty and understood exactly what I was saying. After our lunch, I had a changed person on my hands.
“You know I had to do it,” Jason choked, pausing as he studied the boy. “I had no choice.”
Chin quivering, the boy looked into the man’s clear blue eyes, surprised to see them brimming.
“I’m sorry, Mike,” Jason paused. It had been a long time since the man had cried – probably not since he was a young boy. But now he fought back tears – tears for what he knew the boy was suffering – and tears for the young life he’d taken earlier in the day. Quietly, he gathered the boy in his arms, bringing him closer, the boy’s stuttered breathing sending a shiver through him.
“I know,” the boy stammered. “I’m sorry ’bout what I said.”
Jason’s cheek caressed the ruffled hair on the boys head. “It’s OK. I understand.”
“Don’t know why people say things they don’t mean,” the boy said, angrily stomping his feet on the wood plank floor.
“It’s alright,” Jason reassured unconsciously rubbing the young shoulders. “Let’s get these dishes cleaned up, OK?”
Mike paused, taking in a deep breath. “Jason?”
“Yeah.”
He looked straight into his older brother’s eyes. “I know it was hard for you too. Thank you for telling me what happened.”
Here goes, little fun. A little gory. I’ll leave that for Freud (or to the association with the author in the quote…).
He returns with a cardboard box, which he sets on the floor next to his sofa. From it removes four thick three-ringed binders, all matched and perfectly organized. He places them on the wicker table and says, “This is the story of you birth.”
“My birth!?” I gasp. I know I’m adopted, but all my life I was told I was a foundling, no parent identified.
“Your birth,” he nods. “And your mother’s death … her murder, more like … also your twin sister’s disappearance on the day you both were born. Probably taken by the one who killed your mother to get you outta’ her … or get your sister. I gather it was only her he wanted. Left you there, did he not?”
I stare. I didn’t know I had a twin sister. Or a mom who died. And this old neighbor, Mr. Jones. Who was he? How did he know all that? And why?
“Newspaper clippings. Police reports. Hospital records. Medical examiner notes. You know, the lot.” he adds, touching each binder as he talks, oblivious to my shock. “Kept it for you. Figured it may come handy. Like today.”
“Today,” I echo, numb.
“Yep. Because you sister escaped. If you don’t find her before he does, he will kill her. Come for you next, he would, now that he knows you survived.”
Fantastic! What a hook, what a hook, and did we say this? What a story hook!
For our other readers, we’d like to say that Na’ama sent this about five minutes, maybe a bit more (like six minutes) after this was posted. Meaning she is willing to fly, leap, get her head out of her own way, jump, soar, and let her rip! No worries about kicking that internal editor we all have to the curb. (And, yes, she works at a regular job, too.)
All of that willingness makes writing such a great ride, so much fun. Get the story down, and you can worry about dumb things like apostrophes later. Much later. (I mention this, because there is a hot debate right now on LinkedIn about apostrophes. Seriously, stop worrying about that stuff and WRITE!)
Thanks for inspiring the Blevins’s with this, Na’ama. We need to remember to be more free, too!
Best — Meredith and win
Me grinning. Apostrophes can take a hike on drafty days, anyway, as far as I’m concerned… ;)
ARRRRGGHHH! I HATE what I wrote. That last post was ALL WRONG! Please ignore it. Here’s my rewrite.
He appreciated my honesty and understood exactly what I was saying. After our lunch, I had a changed person on my hands.
“You know I had to do it,” I choked, pausing as i studied the boy. “I had no choice.”
Chin quivering, Mike finally looked at me. I could see he was surprised to see tears welling, nearly overflowing.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, sniffing back what I could. It had been a long time since I had cried – probably not since I was no more than a tadpole. But now I was fighting back a waterfall of tears for what I knew my brother was suffering – tears for the young life I’d taken earlier in the day. Quietly, I gathered my brother in my arms, bringing him closer. The boy’s stuttered breathing sent a shiver through me.
“I know,” Mike stammered. “I’m sorry ’bout what I said.”
My cheek caressed the ruffled hair on the boy’s head. “It’s OK. I understand.”
“Don’t know why people say things they don’t mean,” Mike growled, stomping his feet on the wood plank floor.
“It’s alright,” I reassured, rubbing his young shoulders.
Mike paused, taking in a deep breath. “Jason?”
“Yeah.”
He looked straight into my eyes. “I know it was hard for you too. Thanks for telling me what really happened.”
I smiled as best I could. “Let’s get these dishes cleaned up, OK?”