First Sentences and Author Voice

We’ve all read them: stories that grab you by the throat and force you to keep reading. 

That’s the kind of story we all want to write.  The problem is figuring out how to do it.

First sentences are notorious for being difficult to write.  Stephen King has said that analyzing what makes a first sentence successful is like capturing moonbeams in a jar. 

Writing instructors will give you formulae for successful first sentences.  Start with action, they say.  Don’t start with a disembodied voice.  Orient the reader in time and place.  None of this is bad advice, but following a formula won’t, by itself, make your opening compelling. 

Your first sentence is an invitation to your story.  You’re opening a gate, and you’re inviting the readers to step through it. We use craft to weave together characters, action, setting, plot and all the other elements into the tapestry that makes our story.  But a compelling story is more than these building blocks. 

Each writer brings a unique voice to their stories.  The voice is the vehicle that conveys the story, that embodies the craft. 

Consider the first sentence to The Long Goodbye, by Raymond chandler.

The first time I laid eyes on Terry Lennox he was drunk in a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith outside the terrace of The Dancers.

If you’ve read Chandler, you’ll recognize him at once.  Ross MacDonald said that, “[Chandler] wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a wonderful gusto and imaginative flair.”  It’s Chandler’s distinctive voice that draws the readers in and keeps them there.

You can think of an author’s voice in somewhat the same way as a you think of a vocalist’s.   For example, listen to Elvis or Tom Jones singing “You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me.”  They can sing the same song, even the same arrangement, but no one would mistake one for the other.  Elvis is Elvis and Tom Jones is Tom Jones.  Of course, Dusty Springfield’s rendition is different yet again.  They each have a distinctive voice. 

For another example from the world of writing, consider the opening sentence from Larry Niven’s award-winning short story, “Inconstant Moon.”

I was watching the news when the change came, like a flicker of motion at the corner of my eye.

Niven’s voice is simple and direct.  It’s a mathematician’s voice, reflecting his early training in that discipline.  He’s always in the moment, but mystery flickers at the edge of the here-and-now, as in this opening. I can imagine him spending weeks writing that sentence. 

Not everyone is going to have a voice as powerful as Raymond Chandler, Elvis, or Niven.  But their voices didn’t come from nowhere.  They understood who they were and worked to develop their voice, to fold their essence into their art. 

We all have our own, unique voice. Understanding your voice requires that you have a deep understanding of yourself, who you are, and who you want to be.  Your words convey your inner self, how you live and breathe.  Chandler may have been that “slumming angel,” but you’ll be someone else.  You’ll be you.  You’re unique, and so is your voice. 

Readers are drawn to genuine stories, told by genuine people. The storyteller doesn’t have to be likable, or funny, or clever.  But a good storyteller has to write with a genuine voice. Writing that reveals the inner person promises the reader honesty. 

This is not to suggest you abandon craft.  On the contrary.  But don’t let craft get in the way telling your story, your way.  Know your voice.  Nurture your voice.  Train your voice.

Even the best vocalists train their voices. They engage with coaches, conductors, and other artists. Writers should do the same. Training your writer’s voice is a topic for another newsletter.

For now, the message is listen to your voice.  It’s not only the readers’ gateway to the story. It’s your gateway, too.