The opening of every book I write kills me. Every single time. I write chapter one, then rewrite the opening. Write a love scene, then rewrite the opening. Write the black moment, then rewrite the opening. Write the first I love you moment, then…yadda yadda yadda.
I’m never happy with them. I know the importance of a good opening—a point constantly hammered home by agents talking about zipping off a rejection if the first paragraph doesn’t grab them and readers talking about one page reading tests in the stores or the excerpt on the author’s website. I swear a good opening has become my own personal Eleanor—prized and unattainable.
I was digging through an old file box last night looking for a scrap of paper with some Russian history notes scribbled on it, and I came across a western I started some time ago and set aside to work on a contemporary romance (because westerns don’t sell had been hammered thoroughly into my head, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as that contemporary was Forever Again) and I reread the opening. While it’s a wee bit rough, having not gone beyond first draft stage, this is probably my favorite of my own openings:
When Eliza Jane Carter stepped down from the stagecoach, every man, woman and child on the street stopped to stare.
It wasn’t only her incredible height of almost six feet. It wasn’t only the combination of coal-black hair, ice blue eyes and porcelain complexion. It wasn’t even her lush figure, clad in a long black skirt and severe white blouse.
It was all of those things, combined with a piercing, go-to-hell look that seemed to bore into the very soul of the town. With her back ramrod straight and her chin held high, she looked around the main street of Gardiner, just one more dingy cowtown like the dozens she had toured before.
Her gaze lit on a woman in a worn calico dress with five children in tow. There was a woman standing silent while her husband conversed with a group of men. And over there was a woman, her belly swollen with child, with an infant on her hip and a toddler clinging to her skirt.
Eliza took a deep breath and gripped the handle of her small trunk. The women of Gardiner, Texas were about to be set free and Eliza Jane Carter would be their George Washington, their Abraham Lincoln. She was a one woman revolution.
It’s rough and a mite bit heavy on the Romance Heroine Stereotypical Appearance phrases, but I still like it. And last night, when I was puttering around with old research because I was in a mood to totally throw in the writing towel because it doesn’t matter how good a book I write if I can’t get the reader past the first page, it gave me just enough hope to get my butt parked in front of the monitor again.
But just once—and my current project needs to be this once—I’d like to write an opening sentence that says “BAM! Plan on take-out for dinner.”