Well, final for now. It's a process of diminishing returns but may be worth revisiting at some point.
I've cast a critical eye across well over a dozen page 1s now, including famous published authors and unpublished writers fairly new to the game.
I've even looked at a page 1 of mine from a recent short story.
We talk about writing because we believe it's a skill that can be improved with practice. The balance between learned skill and innate talent is a subject of hot debate. Can EVERYONE be a great writer with enough practice. I don't think so, but some people seem to believe it. The credo of 'hard work can accomplish anything'. I'm tone deaf. No amount of hard work will make me a great piano player. Can some people be great writers straight away, as soon as they try? I guess it's possible, but rarer than rare. Where does the truth lie on the spectrum between those two extremes - what's the balance of perspiration to inspiration? I don't know.
What I do know is that my first efforts weren't very good. For today's critique I have dug up the first book I ever wrote. I knocked this one out immediately after taking a night class in creative writing about a quarter of a century ago circa 1997. I was a grown man of ~30 and I'd written replies in a play-by-mail game I ran in my spare time, so I wasn't a complete newbie to the written word. But the end result (all 55,000 words of it) wasn't great, and the two friends I showed it to told me so.
I've not read this book (or page 1) since I wrote it. So I'm coming to this fresh and at the time of writing this have no idea what it's going to be like.
As usual I'll show the page first then repeat it with my annotation.
Let's have at it!
HateFire
Chapter 1
The cottage lay in a
wooded valley, hemmed in by trees on every side, a small but sturdy
construction of log and thatch lost in the darkness of the forest. The smoke
issuing from the chimney caught the moonlight, a glowing serpent twisting into
the heavens. Down below the fire crackled in the hearth, the only light in a
room of dancing shadows. Dale and his younger brother Esire burrowed deeper
into the folds of their mother's robe as the story reached its climax.
"..and through the
night they came with burning eyes and hatred in their hearts."
Esire at six was wholly
taken up with the tale, his eyes wide, his small hands knotted in his brother's
tunic. His mother's stories always ended happily and he knew that any minute now
the prince would step in to save the day but right now these comforting
thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. Elena gathered her boys closer
still, paused to wink at her youngest, then continued.
The closest village to
the cottage where Elena Mara held her sons enthralled with the old sagas, was
the small hamlet of Tru. Amongst the score of buildings huddled around the
marsh trail Tru boasted a single tavern and it was in this place of light and
warmth that David Hool was sitting when the lizard walked in. The door to the
street opened and the lizard stooped to enter, its mail jingling. A ripple of
silence spread across the room killing conversation. David's hand sought the
hilt of his sword instinctively then fell away, snarl of fustration on the
warrior's lips.
"Mara. We seek
Mara's home."
The lizard leaned over
the bar thrusting its black scaled snout too close to the barkeep's own pale
face.
"Not round 'ere, you
w-want to try the next valley east."
The crimson tongue
flickered out to taste the air. The lizard turned slowly to scan the drinkers
with its souless gaze and then strode purposefully from the smokey room. Out in
the street a second lizard was waiting patiently, in one talloned hand it held
the reins of a large grey horse upon which sat a tall man wrapped against the
chill of the night in a deep blue robe trimmed with ermine. The man's face was
angular, as if struck from flint and his eyes were chips of sapphire in the
moon light.
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HateFire
Chapter 1
The cottage lay in a wooded valley, hemmed in by trees on every side, a small but sturdy construction of log and thatch lost in the darkness of the forest.
I'm sorry young-Mark, but that's a really dull opening line. It's also too long and wordy.
It's not TERRIBLE, but really, do I need to know about the build quality in line 1? And "wooded valley" "hemmed in by trees" (on every side no less!) and "of the forest" ... it's too much. I get it: TREES.
Wooded, trees, forest, logs - all in one line. And in line one.
I mean, what would a cottage in a forest be built with?
The smoke issuing from the chimney caught the moonlight, a glowing serpent twisting into the heavens.
Pretty, but not pretty enough to warrant the space, not in line 2. Hook me!
Down below the fire crackled in the hearth,
Feels like a given really...
the only light in a
room of dancing shadows. Dale and his younger brother Esire burrowed deeper
into the folds of their mother's robe as the story reached its climax.
OK, not terrible.
"..and through the
night they came with burning eyes and hatred in their hearts."
We're just starting THIS story, we probably don't want to be immediately plunged into another one.
Esire at six was wholly
taken up with the tale, his eyes wide, his small hands knotted in his brother's
tunic. His mother's stories always ended happily and he knew that any minute now
the prince would step in to save the day but right now these comforting
thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. Elena gathered her boys closer
still, paused to wink at her youngest, then continued.
So, it seems that we started in an omniscient PoV that has visited the 6 year-old, but has yet to settle.
Slight ominous undertone - is it foreshadowing?
And we've bounced out of the child. A 6 year-old doesn't think of their mother as Elena.
The closest village to the cottage where Elena Mara held her sons enthralled with the old sagas, was the small hamlet of Tru. Amongst the score of buildings huddled around the marsh trail Tru boasted a single tavern and it was in this place of light and warmth that David Hool was sitting when the lizard walked in.
OK, we REALLY are in omniscient mode. We've bounced right out of the hut+forest and into a new location with a bit of info dumping to boot.
The door to the
street opened and the lizard stooped to enter, its mail jingling. A ripple of
silence spread across the room killing conversation. David's hand sought the
hilt of his sword instinctively then fell away, snarl of fustration on the
warrior's lips.
I mean ... it's not dull. Unfocused, yes. But something's happening. A big lizard in armour!
"Mara. We seek Mara's home."
The lizard leaned over
the bar thrusting its black scaled snout too close to the barkeep's own pale
face.
"Not round 'ere, you
w-want to try the next valley east."
Some dialogue... the threat level rises...
The crimson tongue
flickered out to taste the air. The lizard turned slowly to scan the drinkers
with its souless gaze and then strode purposefully from the smokey room. Out in
the street a second lizard was waiting patiently, in one talloned hand it held
the reins of a large grey horse upon which sat a tall man wrapped against the
chill of the night in a deep blue robe trimmed with ermine. The man's face was
angular, as if struck from flint and his eyes were chips of sapphire in the
moon light.
As I recall, this serves as a prologue-ish chapter 1 and we leapfrog forwards in time pretty rapidly until starting a more continous tale with the little boy now a young man. I think the omniscient PoV is exchanged for Esire's.
But yes, just judging by what's here ... I'm not a fan of omniscient, it's distancing. I think the Terry Goodkind page was omniscient too and I complained about that.
There's too much description here, especially for a page 1. I don't care about the "large grey" horse or the "deep blue" robe or the ermine or the "chips of sapphire" eyes. Give me more - something that poses strong questions, more immediate threat, a problem to deal with.
There are hints of it here. We see the idyllic family scene. Scary lizard warriors are heading their way. It doesn't sound like it will end well. But with the fat trimmed we could have got there faster and had more to bind us to the characters.
Plus we could have just had a strong PoV and not bounced to the village - reading the story and then ... alarming noise outside? dog barking? door bursts in? Something tighter and more exciting.
It wasn't the worst, but far from the best. Unequivocally 25 years of practice have improved my writing considerably.
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