There’s a lot of pressure on the opening sentence of a book to hook the reader in, the belief being that if you don’t get your reader quick, you likely won’t get them at all. I tend to spread the responsibility around, and instead of talking about the first sentence, I talk about the whole opening of a book. And there’s more to a good opening than just being a “hook.” Especially if you’re writing genre fiction.
First of all, I like the first sentence to be genre specific, or at least hinting at the genre the book is written in. I want the reader to know what they’re getting into. My favorite opening line ever is from a book by Andrew Vachss. It has no action in it, no real hook, just a sunset:
The sun set over the East river like it knew it was coming.
Not only am I all in, I also know what’s coming: noir, baby. Deep, dark noir.
I tried for this same kind of effect with the first sentence (actually, first two sentences which comprises the entire first chapter) of my book, Bad Company:
It starts with a gunshot. It always starts with a gunshot.
Here’s the first sentence of Steward of Song, which couldn’t be more specific to the Urban Fantasy genre:
The troll leaned against the streetlight, trying to look nonchalant.
One of my favorite techniques for the opening of a book is a narrowing or widening of scope; I start with a small detail and then pan out to take in the rest of the scene, or do the opposite, starting with a wide view of the setting and then narrowing in to the character.
As an example, here’s the beginning of Duster.
The three Duarsteri characters on the blade stood for death, revenge, and a long journey finished. The knuckles of the hand holding the sword had characters on them, as well: faded, crude tattoos that spelled out “Half-Breed” in the language of the North.
“We have a problem, stranger?” I asked, careful not to move my jaw too much. The tip of the sword was tickling my neck right under the jawbone, and even a tiny bit of downward pressure would slit my throat quite nicely.
The creature holding the weapon didn’t answer immediately.
I reveal the sword (genre specific), then where it’s being held: the main character’s neck. I could’ve led with the sword at the main character’s neck, but to me, delaying it just that little bit gives it more impact, plus I thought the characters on the blade and what they stood for was just the kind of weird detail that sticks in your mind in tense situations. In the third paragraph, I reveal that the sword wielder isn’t human. So, I’ve pretty clearly defined the genre, introduced some tension, and given the reader a pretty good idea of what the tone of the book is going to be. A few paragraphs later, I bring in the room:
I knew there were other objects in the room: rough wooden tables, wobbly chairs I’d made myself, a fireplace with a ceremonial sword hanging far above it. But all I seemed to be able to see was the weapon at my throat.
By starting small then widening the scope, I keep the focus on the character and the tension while still giving the reader a view of the whole scene. I’ll show an example of starting big and narrowing in shortly. But first I want to talk about starting with action.
When most people talk about starting a book with a hook, they talk about action: someone falling off a cliff, getting in a fight, evading danger of some kind. Now, don’t get me wrong, action is an excellent hook. It’s just not the only one. And sometimes, it can even be the wrong one. A fight scene is much improved by the characters involved being characters that the reader cares about. If the fight happens in the first paragraph, there’s not a lot of empathy for anyone on the page yet. So, maybe try one of these two essential elements of literature for setting the hook:
- Setting—The more unusual the setting, the better it is for leading with it. You’re describing a place that the reader has never experienced; they’re bound to find it interesting. Any of the speculative genres—fantasy, science fiction, etc. do very well leading with setting.
- Character—characters that readers care about are the absolute linchpin of reader engagement. Showing the interior life of an interesting character can hook readers in as effectively as any fall, punch, or swing of a sword.
Or better still, combine all three. Here’s the first few paragraphs of my latest novel, Deed of Empire:
It was just before dawn in the Legus Mercantile City-Republic of Pallasoldi, a rare moment of calm and quiet before the riotous day. The stone streets of the four central markets were sluiced clean, the copper bell that hung where their corners met scoured and gleaming. The clattering of wheels faded away as the last of the night soil merchants dragged his full cart into the Cunicolan, the complex of tunnels that ran beneath the city to keep the shit-sellers out of sight. In the markets and bazaars that spider-webbed out from the city center, the merchants had already hung their signs and laid out their wares, and now spent the last tranquil minutes in their day eating thin wheatcakes, or having broken their fast, smoking a thin stick of apatin brought in by caravan from the west.
In Twelve Knights, a mixed neighborhood of homes and craftsmen’s shops—usually one on top of the other—a slim, dark girl of no more than fifteen summers sprinted down an alley between a wainwright’s showroom and a chandlery. She wore a peasant’s straw hat with the strap tight under her chin and a long, shapeless dress to match, though it was cut higher than expected—mid-calf rather than the usual ankle—and didn’t hinder her flight. As she ran, she silently cursed the quiet streets, the full moon that still shone, and most of all, herself.
Alda, she thought, by the limp-dicked god of drink and disappointment, your timing is perfect, as always.
A half-dozen men burst out of a door and into the alley a dozen yards behind her. They wore red leathers emblazoned with a single white chevron on the chest. City Keepers.
A half-an-hour later—a few minutes even!—and there’d be people on these streets. A crowd to disappear into.
One of the men sighted Alda and whistled, loud and sharp. A point, a shout, and they were after her. They weren’t slow.
A paragraph or two of setting, a quick description of the character—but getting into her interior thoughts quickly, for those are more interesting when it’s your POV character—and then comes the action. Hopefully, action that is more engaging now that the reader knows where it’s happening, and who it’s happening to.
Now, I could have led with what is the obvious zinger of the intro: Alda thinking, by the limp-dicked god of drink and disappointment, your timing is perfect, as always. And then get to the action and description. And while I believe that would work, in this case, it kind of puts things in reverse—you’re inside her mind and then have to back up to see what has led to her thinking this. That would be starting small and widening, but the widening out doesn’t have those intermediate small steps of the sword and its placement and finally the surroundings like in the Duster example. To start in her mind and then jump all the way out to the street and those chasing her feels too abrupt. I like the beats better when it leads up to the “limp-dicked” line. Helps it land harder, and along with the brief physical description, gives us a snapshot impression of a snarky girl engaged in some kind of illegal endeavor whom we are bound to like because of her self-deprecating and somewhat foul humor.
And now that we like her, the chase seems all the more desperate, especially since we are just beginning the book and don’t yet know if she’s a main character or not. To the reader, she’s in real danger. If there’s just action and no real sense of the character, it’s hard to care what happens. And apathy is a death knell to reader engagement.
So don’t just aim for a hook. Give them the whole fish.