“The boats arrived in springtime, carrying
the bodies of headless men.”
I once built a story entirely around that
one sentence.
I didn’t know anything else about the characters
or plot beyond that, but I itched to discover them.
 
I’d been following the advice of a creative
writing professor, who had told me,
"Write a first line that makes you want to know more.”
I became obsessed with studying first lines.
After learning the openings of classic novels,
I went to Barnes & Noble and thumbed through
books on the center tables—the new releases
and bestsellers of different genres.
From my research, I composed a simple thesis:
The first line of a story should create a
sense of character, conflict, setting, mood,
theme, or style—or any combination thereof.
Most importantly, it should make the reader
ask questions.
In analyzing examples, I’m going to simplify
what makes a good first line into four possible
ingredients: questions, character, imagery,
and theme.
Some sentences utilize only one of these;
others, several.
You’re looking for a sentence that pushes
readers to read the second.
Questions are the most powerful ingredient
in a first line.
It’s whatever makes the reader go, “I
NEED to know what happens next.”
Octavia Butler’s Kindred opens with this:
“I lost an arm on my last trip home.”
Immediately, I crave to learn more about this
incident and the narrator.
A question might also arise from an oddity,
as in one of the most famous first lines of
all time:
“It was a bright cold day in April, and
the clocks were striking thirteen.”
That’s from George Orwell’s 1984.
The cold weather provides atmosphere, but
it’s the “striking thirteen” that captures
our attention—something is slightly off
here.
You might also recognize this question-raising
line: “It was a pleasure to burn.”
Who is doing the burning, and why is it such
a pleasure?
And what are they burning?
If you’ve read Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit
451, you’ll know that this sentence conveys
the central conflict of the story—that of
the main character burning books.
In addition to oddities, you can raise questions
through conflict, such as conflict between
characters, as shown in Stephen King’s The
Gunslinger: “The man in black fled across
the desert, and the gunslinger followed.”
We have two people at odds with each other,
one fleeing and one following.
Who are the man in black and the gunslinger?
How did this conflict come to be?
Conflict might also take the form of a crime
or misdeed, such as theft, arson, arrest,
or escape.
A character is doing something they’re not
supposed to be doing, or they’re just caught
in the middle of a bad situation.
Here are a few examples:
“Someone must have slandered Josef K., for
one morning, without having done anything
wrong, he was arrested.”
“The first thing I did was, I stole a body.”
“He wakes to the sound of sirens.”
“The building was on fire, and it wasn’t
my fault.”
Opening with a character involved in something
illegal or taboo is sure to generate questions
because it promises future trouble.
The most common type of conflict in first
sentences involves death, whether that be
a natural death, murder, suicide, or the imminent
demise of the protagonist:
“This is how I kill someone.”
“Maman died today.”
“Marley was dead: to begin with.”
“I like to think I know what death is.”
“People often shit themselves when they
die.”
First lines that involve death can also blend
in other elements, such as setting and tone:
“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer
they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t
know what I was doing in New York.”
As humans, we are constantly preoccupied by
our own mortality.
Death may be a common trope in first lines,
but it works on me every time—it makes me
want to read the book.
A writer can also generate questions by introducing
a significant event or character in the protagonist’s
life.
Ready Player One by Ernest Cline hints at
the story’s plot right away: “Everyone
my age remembers where they were and what
they were doing when they first heard about
the contest.”
We get the sense that this contest is a huge
deal, and we wonder why that is and what it
involves.
Instead of an event, the narrator might note
a specific person who changed their life forever:
“If I’d known I was about to meet the
man who’d shatter me like bone china on
terra-cotta, I would have slept in.”
In what way, exactly, did this man shatter
her?
We’re anticipating a tense interaction between
the narrator and the man.
By zeroing in on these moments, the authors
are calling attention to the catalyst that
propelled the story into action—the moment
that divides the character’s life into “before”
and “after.”
Oddities, conflict between characters, crime,
death, and important moments—they all evoke
questions that make readers want to find the
answers.
Many first lines focus on character, oftentimes
introducing the protagonist by name, like
in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods: “Shadow
had done three years in prison.”
Although this is a relatively simple introduction,
we have an interesting name followed by the
question of how this character got in prison
in the first place, as well as what he’ll
do now that he’s out.
The author might also highlight the protagonist’s
most unusual quality.
Guess what character this first line refers
to: “All children, except one, grow up.”
That’s J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan.
When it comes to first lines, character introductions
often convey the tone of the narrative voice.
You might recognize this voice in particular:
“If you really want to hear about it, the
first thing you'll probably want to know is
where I was born, and what my lousy childhood
was like, and how my parents were occupied
and all before they had me, and all that David
Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel
like going into it, if you want to know the
truth.”
Holden Caulfield, from J.D. Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye, has a distinctive way
of speaking that is immediately recognizable,
even within the first line.
Rather than introducing the protagonist, a
first line might put the spotlight on a key
secondary character instead: “I am doomed
to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not
because of his voice, or because he was the
smallest person I ever knew, or even because
he was the instrument of my mother’s death,
but because he is the reason I believe in
God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”
Given that the novel’s title is A Prayer
for Owen Meany, it’s no surprise that the
opening idea centers on him.
We’re able to not only visualize the character’s
appearance, but we also get a taste of the
narrator’s voice.
We have questions about how Owen was involved
in a woman’s death and how he turned the
narrator into a Christian.
Drama surrounding a character attracts our
attention, but so does humor: “Daisy wore
a clingy black dress with a neckline so deep
it could tutor philosophy.”
The narrative voice surprises us with a joke,
and it’s that writing style that keeps us
reading.
C.S. Lewis does this, too, in The Voyage of
the Dawn Treader: “There was a boy called
Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved
it.”
We’ve got a secondary character’s name,
but also a hint of his personality: he’s
badly behaved enough to deserve a horrible
name.
When focusing on character in a first line,
writers typically establish the point of view,
whether first, second, or third person.
We’re shown what’s interesting, what’s
unique about that particular character.
Imagery is another technique authors employ
in snagging the audience’s attention.
This might include a description of the setting
or an important item.
Oftentimes, these visuals generate a certain
mood.
Take this setting-oriented first line from
Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage,
published around 1895: “The cold passed
reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring
fogs revealed an army stretched out on the
hills, resting.”
We’re given this haunting, almost cinematic
image as an opening, inviting us into the
scene.
Here’s a more contemporary example from
My Absolute Darling, a novel published in
2017: “The old house hunkers on its hill,
all peeling white paint, bay windows, and
spindled wooden railings overgrown with climbing
roses and poison oak.”
We might question the importance of this house,
why it’s decaying.
From this line, we also sense that it’s
going to be a more descriptive, literary type
of novel.
Rather than reveal the larger setting, the
author might show a close-up shot of a particular
object, one that captures the essence of the
story.
For example, much of A.S.
Byatt’s Possession takes place in libraries,
with the plot centering on two scholars researching
a pair of Victorian poets.
The first line presents a simple image that
captures the heart of the story: “The book
was thick and black and covered with dust.”
The idea of a forgotten tome suggests that
there are secrets to uncover here, and we
want to know what “the book” is and why
it’s significant.
You’ll see this focus on a specific object
in other genres as well, such as the best-selling
thriller The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins,
which opens: “There is a pile of clothing
on the side of the train tracks.”
The statement seems ordinary at first, but
several things are happening here: we get
that the story is in present tense rather
than past, the train tracks are presented
as an important setting, and the idea of abandoned
objects creates an ominous atmosphere, with
abandoned clothes hinting at the idea of missing
people.
You can establish a lot about a story’s
setting, plot, and theme with one simple image.
Sometimes it’s not the setting or object
that’s unique but rather the way an image
is described.
Look at this line from William Gibson’s
sci-fi novel Neuromancer: “The sky above
the port was the color of television, tuned
to a dead channel.”
There have been countless descriptions of
the sky across literature, but this sentence
really showcases the author’s writing style,
in addition to evoking the sci-fi genre with
a technology-related metaphor.
To create an eye-catching visual, you can
take something ordinary and describe it in
an unusual way.
The final category is theme.
Many older novels open with a sweeping statement
or an aphorism—a universal truth.
Here are three famous opening sentences that
use this technique; see if you can name them.
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy
family is unhappy in its own way.”
“It is a truth universally acknowledged,
that a single man in possession of a good
fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
1.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst
of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was
the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of
belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it
was the season of Light, it was the season
of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it
was the winter of despair, we had everything
before us, we had nothing before us, we were
all going direct to heaven, we were all going
direct the other way—in short, the period
was so far like the present period, that some
of its noisiest authorities insisted on its
being received, for good or for evil, in the
superlative degree of comparison only.”
Respectively, those quotes are from Anna Karenina,
Pride and Prejudice, and A Tale of Two Cities.
These sentences are memorable openers in part
because they emphasize key themes: family
life, marriage, duality.
Some modern novels have thematic first lines,
too:
“History has failed us, but no matter.”
“Life is bullshit.”
Side note: Curse words can call attention
to a first line, too, as they usually add
humor and convey the narrative voice.
If you decide to open with a sentence that
summarizes your theme, be careful about echoing
cliché sentiments like “Love conquers all.”
Instead, strive to convey a surprising, funny,
or brilliantly worded truth—and look to
the classics for reference.
In conveying the larger theme of a novel,
you’ll give the reader a taste of what’s
to come.
Questions, character, imagery, theme: some
books cram a number of these elements into
their first lines.
Take a look at Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing:
“The night Effia Otcher was born into the
musky heat of Fanteland, a fire raged through
the woods just outside her father’s compound.”
We have a named character, a setting, a conflict
(the fire), a secondary character (her father),
and the question of “What exactly is the
compound?”
Here’s another first sentence that packs
a punch with information: “Many years later,
as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano
Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon
when his father took him to discover ice.”
That’s from One Hundred Years of Solitude
by Gabriel García Marquez.
Again, we have a named character, but the
conflict this time arrives in the form of
death—the character’s own execution.
Then the author highlights a significant event
in the character’s life: when his father
took him to discover ice, which is an odd
concept.
I also fell in love with Patrick Ness’s
The Knife of Never Letting Go after reading
the first sentence: “The first thing you
find out when yer dog learns to talk is that
dogs don’t got nothing much to say.”
It combines narrative voice and humor with
the oddity of a talking dog, which also hints
at the genre; we know that this isn’t going
to be a realistic novel.
In addition, the dog is an important secondary
character.
Shoving more ingredients into your first line
doesn’t necessarily make it better, but
it’s fun to experiment with different combinations.
A side note about opening a story with dialogue:
Many editors advise against doing this, the
reason being that the reader hasn’t grounded
themselves in the story yet.
They can’t visualize the setting or character,
so the words are just floating in space.
Not many books start with dialogue, but there
are a few popular novels that have gotten
away with it:
“What’s it going to be then, eh?”
“I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve
listened through his ears, and I tell you
he’s the one.”
If you want to open with dialogue, I recommend
pairing it with a visual element that grounds
the reader in the story, as E.B.
White does in Charlotte’s Web:
“Where’s Papa going with that ax?” said
Fern to her mother as they were setting the
table for breakfast.
Give context to the quote.
At this point, you probably feel like you’re
drowning in examples, but there’s another
factor you should consider when writing your
first line: genre.
In literary fiction, setting and theme might
be the focus, with a lengthier and more complex
sentence structure, or one that breaks the
conventions of grammar.
In genre fiction, narrative voice and conflict
are often more important, as is a punchier,
attention-grabbing style.
So, let’s play a game.
I’m going to read six openings.
After each one, name the first genre that
comes to mind as well as the primary ingredient
the opening uses: questions, character, imagery,
or theme.
“I have a theory.
Hating someone feels disturbingly similar
to being in love with them.”
“The madness of an autumn prairie cold front
coming through.”
“Kalak rounded a rocky stone ridge and stumbled
to a stop before the body of a dying thunderclast.”
“The abstract painting on the bedroom wall
was new.
It had been painted in fresh blood.”
“So, the thing is, I come from the world
we were supposed to have.”
“There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t
know what to do with himself—not just sometimes,
but always.”
Your answers may vary a little from mine,
and that’s fine.
I identified the genres and ingredients as
follows: romance (theme), literary (imagery),
fantasy (questions), mystery (imagery), sci-fi
(questions/character), and children’s (character).
The purpose of this exercise is to show that
the genre of a story is often apparent from
the book’s first line.
It doesn’t need be, but if you can convey
the genre right away, embrace it.
Having an interesting first line is beneficial,
but it is by no means necessary.
Plenty of memorable novels have utterly forgettable
first lines, and vice versa.
In addition, you might decide to change your
opening line later on so that it better reflects
the heart of the story.
And even if you have the perfect, attention-grabbing
sentence, it needs to be followed by an enticing
opening scene.
But those are topics for future videos.
As Stephen King states, “An opening line
should invite the reader to begin the story.
It should say: Listen.
Come in here.
You want to know about this.
How can a writer extend an appealing invitation—one
that's difficult, even, to refuse?”
Do you have a first line you’re proud to
have written?
I’d love to hear it in the comments.
Whatever you do, keep writing.
