Smooth Beginningsby Marg McAlister
Beginnings are difficult. Beginnings, in fact, are probably the most re-written part of a manuscript. A lot of writers plunge into a novel knowing perfectly well that they'll come back and rewrite their first chapter when they've finished their novel. Why do they do this? Several reasons:
One of the very best ways for any writer to learn the craft is to analyse the work of published writers. In the excerpt that follows from Henry Porter's A SPY'S LIFE, you will see very clearly how he hooks his readers by arousing their curiosity. Rather than 'telling' readers what is going on, he lets them find out through the main character's thoughts and actions. When you read on, note the following things:
Beginning of Excerpt.
Chapter 1: The East River
A lip of ice protruded from the bank just in front of his face. It was no more than three feet away and he
could see it with absolute clarity in the light that was coming from behind him. He contemplated the ice
through the mist of his breath, noticing the lines that ran around its edge like tree rings. He understood they
were formed when the tide lapped its underside, adding a little to the surface, then receded, leaving it
hanging over the mud. He was groggy, but his powers of reason were working. That was good.
Harland moved his head a little and listened. There was a ringing inside his ears but he could hear the slap of
the water and the agitated clicking of dead reeds somewhere off to his left. Beyond these there was a commotion
- sirens and the noise of a helicopter. The light didn't allow him to see how he was trapped, but he felt
something heavy pinning him down from behind and he knew that his legs were bent backwards because the muscles
in his groin and on the tops of his thighs were burning with pain. The rest of him was numb. He reckoned he
must have been there for some time.
He pulled at his arms which had been plunged vertically into the mud. The movement caused his face to fall
forward nearer the mud and his nostrils to fill with the smell of the sea. The tide! He could see that the
water had risen a little in the time since he had become conscious. The tide would come in and cover his face.
He had to get free - shift the weight that was holding him down. But he felt weak and dazed and there was
nothing for him to push against to hold his face away from the mud. He groped behind him and felt the seat.
Jesus, he was still strapped into his seat!
He ran his right hand up and down searching for the seat belt and found it stretched tight across his
chest. That explained the pain in the area of his heart. Eventually he located the buckle, flipped its tongue
with his thumb and sagged forward into the mud. It was going to be okay. He'd be able to shift the seat, or
wriggle from underneath it. A little more purchase was all that was needed. But that wasn't going to be easy.
Exerting the slightest pressure made him sink closer to the water.
He knew that the mud had absorbed the force of his impact and had saved his life, but now he cursed it. He
began to prod and grope beneath the mud. After several minutes he touched something solid, an old plank of
wood. It was slippery, but it did not move when he gripped it with both hands and then pushed upwards with all
his strength, bringing his legs awkwardly into play. Nothing happened. He slumped down again and inhaled the
odour of decay. He had to concentrate on controlling his breath which was coming in shallow puffs. As he
waited, the breeze peppered his face with grains of ice and he realised for the first time how cold it was.
He breathed deeply, right into his stomach, and tightened his grip beneath the mud. He was going to do it. He
was going to lift the damned seat because he hadn't survived the crash to be drowned in six inches of the East
River.
End of excerpt.
An Analysis of The Reader's Reaction to This Story Beginning
What You Can Learn From The Above Excerpt
© Marg McAlister |
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