The first chapter is an invitation

For a long time, I tried to make every opening sentence carry the entire book. It had to sound beautiful, introduce the character, establish the setting and hint at the ending. Unsurprisingly, it usually sounded like a sentence trying too hard.

Begin with something a person can do

A character arriving at a door gave me more room than a character explaining her past. She could look for a key. She could put down a bag. She could hesitate. These small actions made the larger feeling visible without asking the reader to understand everything at once.

An opening does not need to be quiet. It needs to be specific. If the scene begins in the middle of an argument, I still want to know what someone does with their hands. If it begins with a journey, I want to know what they have chosen to carry.

Leave a little space

Readers are generous collaborators. They notice an unfinished cup or a question avoided, and they begin to imagine why. I try to leave enough space for that work. Explaining the meaning of every detail can close a scene just when it is beginning to open.

During revision, I mark every paragraph that supplies background information. Then I ask whether the scene needs it now. Often the fact belongs three pages later. Sometimes it belongs in my notebook and nowhere else.

An invitation you can keep

The opening makes a promise about the kind of attention the book will reward. A novel built around relationships should give you a relationship to wonder about. A mystery should make you curious. The promise can be modest, but the rest of the book needs to honour it.

When I read an opening aloud, I listen for the moment I want to turn the page. That is rarely the most impressive line. More often, it is the line that makes room for a question I have not answered yet.