3 Things Your First Pages Must Have
June 23, 2022 § 15 Comments
For an agent, publisher or reader to keep going, your first pages must:
1) establish the main problem or quest
2) make us want to spend time with the protagonist (not the same as liking them)
3) teach us the rules/theme of the book we’re entering.
I’ve read a lot of book beginnings this week, between submissions for today’s webinar, in which Jane Friedman and I will analyze queries and first pages, and finding examples of published books to talk about. Some of what I’m noticing: unpublished manuscripts—even “final” drafts—start with backstory. Or setting up relationships. Or giving a sense of mood, or bringing the reader into the setting. Or establishing exactly why the protagonist might develop a goal…later.
Published books start with action.
As I read sample queries, I looked up books that authors listed as comps. Books they aspire to be like; books they hope to be shelved next to. Time after time, the main problem or quest was established in the first paragraph. In memoirs:
Cheryl Strayed loses a hiking boot and tells us what she’s set out to do and why it’s such an unlikely quest. Why is she doing it? Read on…
Jeannette Walls sees her mother digging through a sidewalk garbage can, and keeps going. Why doesn’t she stop? Read on…
Suleika Jaouad starts itching. What’s wrong with her? Read on…
Some genres have first-pages conventions. I looked at middle grade books, all written in first person, all starting in the middle of a scene that summarizes the whole problem of the book. I looked at young adult books, all establishing a strong-voiced narrator about to enter a new situation they’re dreading/anticipating. Can an author do something unconventional? Sure! But they’ve got to pull it off beautifully, and they’ve got to do it on purpose, not because they didn’t carefully examine other books in their genre.
For your own pages, skip the backstory (and any big world-building chunks). Let the reader figure it out from how the protagonist interacts with the world. This includes relationships. When you find yourself writing, “I leaned against my husband Paolo, and we watched our daughter Jane,” pick either the relationship or the name. The reader can figure out the name from dialogue, or the relationship from behavior. Keep place references casual. Not, “I pulled into the gravel driveway of our two-story mock Tudor that my wife Bobbie and I bought twelve years before,” but “pulled into the driveway,” or “got home.” Don’t lay out a floor plan or a family tree—get the reader into the story. Work in details as the narrator interacts with the setting while pursuing their main action.
What makes a protagonist someone we want to spend time with? Voice is a big reason. For memoirs, tell your story like you’re telling a friend, but better. As if you’re relating that cocktail-party story you’ve told before—genuine, but a little more polished.
You’ve probably also heard of “Saving the Cat”. This concept, named by Blake Snyder, means establishing the humanity of the character we’re going to spend time with. Maybe they literally save a cat from a tree before heading into the bar for a pre-recovery binge. Maybe they show a small kindness. I love this moment from the first pages of Free Lunch, middle-grade autofiction from Rex Ogle. The young narrator has just fought with his mother in the supermarket parking lot, upset about the family’s poverty. Then:
I pull a shopping cart from the pen. One of the wheels is wonky and spins left and right instead of rolling straight. I consider putting it back, getting a new one, but then I feel bad for it. It’s not the cart’s fault it’s messed up.
It’s a beautiful moment of saving the cat, and a remarkable craft moment—we love the narrator because the narrator feels compassion. For a shopping cart. In a sentence that also states a primary theme of the book—it’s not my fault I’m messed up.
Finally, your first pages must teach the “rules” of the book. What’s the tone? What genre are we entering? How will this story be told?
Kiese Laymon’s Heavy opens rhythmically, urgently—he’s going to tell a personal story that’s hard to tell, and he has to keep going before losing the nerve. This book will be voice-driven, the reader learns. Baratunde Thurston’s How to Be Black opens with a dryly funny author’s note. The reader learns that this book will be self-referential, and the format is part of the story. Maggie Nelson’s Argonauts opens with references to Wittgenstein and anal sex. The reader is either 100% in for this smart, visceral journey, or they’re going to put the book down before page two. By giving your reader a sense of the rules, they are already leaning in, meeting you on the page, anticipating what comes next.
Take a look at the published books you’d be thrilled to share a shelf with. What do those pages do? Are the quest, voice, rules and theme clearly established? Does the book start with an action? What, specifically, makes you want to spend time with the narrator? Then look at your own pages—are you doing the same things? If you’re choosing not to, what else have you done that’s just as strong or stronger?
Allison K Williams is Brevity’s Social Media Editor. If you’d like to hear these concepts discussed in more detail, plus pages and queries analysis, please join her and Jane Friedman today (or on the replay!) for Why Is My Book Getting Rejected?