I went to my brother Tod’s house for Thanksgiving. In his office, he had a stack of ARCs and review copies (he reviews books for a Las Vegas newspaper). There was a new book by an author I’m curious about, so I picked it up and started reading. I didn’t get past the first two paragraphs and, as it turned out, neither did my brother.
The first howl sang across the night void and trembled the frozen air, a sound thin as the starlight poised on the blue plains of snow, with no more presence than the memory of a vanished loved one, and just as inescapable across the face of the world; and as with a ghostly visage rising before me, I might have denied the cry existed. But the horses plunged.
Sergei Gorlov, the friend and fellow mercenary who had mentored me for the last two years of cavalry warfare and who guided me now into the vast mysteries of his homeland, sat beside me, bundled beneath blankets in the open sleigh.
Spill! Who?
It’s not good, but it’s hardly the worst first paragraphs of a published novel I’ve read.
It’s Randall Wallace, the guy who wrote Braveheart. That’s not a new book, though, is it?
My favorite part is “But the horses plunged.” I’m not even sure what that means, but I like it.
Lee’s point emphasizes something that I stress very strongly: openings matter a lot. Those two paragraphs don’t give me much hope that I’d enjoy the book.
Holy shit, you’re good!
Actually Lee,
this is an opening for a question I have for you (and David and whomever) if you’re in the mood to expound –
Here it is – what’s the most important thing to have in your opening paragragh of a novel for it to work and B) what’s the most important thing to avoid (I know that being boring is number one, but I’m speaking primarily about good writers who make bad mistakes that could have been avoided) at all costs.
As I mentioned, I don’t think the above writer is terrible, but he made mistakes and it would be interesting to hear what you think most of them were.
I guessed Wallace before hitting the comments section — helps that “Sergei Gorlov” doesn’t have too many Google hits…
Okay, Joshua, I’ll take a crack at it:
The first howl sang across the night void and trembled the frozen air [This is a fine sentence, and if I was the writer, I would have left well enough alone. But then he goes further :], a sound thin as the starlight poised on the blue plains of snow [I’m having a hard time visualizing that and then imagining a sound that’s the equivalent, but I’m giving it a try, but even as I am, it gets even harder, because the sound isn’t just as thin as starlight, it’s also ], with no more presence than the memory of a vanished loved one [this is one amazing howl, it’s thin as starlight on blue snow, is like a memory of a vanished loved one, AND ] and just as inescapable [ it’s like starlight, blue snow, and a memory of a loved one AND it’s not just inescapable, it’s — ] across the face of the world, and as with a ghostly visage rising before me [ There’s a ghost now, too? Whose ghost? Is it Christmas past? I can’t keep track of all these metaphors. In fact, I’ve forgotten what we were talking about. Was it a howl? Stars? Snow? Or a dead lover who is chasing me all over the globe?], I might have denied the cry existed [Cry? I thought it was a howl ]. But the horses plunged. {Plunged? Into what? The night? Off a cliff? Into a swimming pool? There is something to be said for simplicity…and maybe one metaphor per paragraph. This is over-wrought, and over-writ, to the say the least, like a scream from a banshee over the frosting curls of a wind-swept sea as turbulent as my stomach after three chili dogs.]
Sergei Gorlov, the friend and fellow mercenary who had mentored me for the last two years of cavalry warfare and who guided me now into the vast mysteries of his homeland, sat beside me, bundled beneath blankets in the open sleigh. [This is just bad writing. I’m sure someone more learned than me can explain the technical reasons why, but I’ll do it by giving you another illustration of the same clunky construction: Biff Biffington, who won a Nobel Prize for literature then three days later choked on a almond causing him to have a stroke that left him with a paralyzed lower lip that made him drool constantly, stood in the doorway.]
Nope, Lee, nothing is safe as long as Google’s about.
Here’s the review of “Love and Honor” that appeared in the Washington Post last year:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A17092-2004Sep12.html
“You will rarely come across a novel that contains more thrills and spills, more unabashed melodrama, more moments of heroism followed by corny comic relief. Yet if it is true that cliches abound, it is also true that the book is well written, well researched and, if approached with an innocent heart, endless fun.”
I know that you have to hew close to the writing of that time when you’re using 1st person narration, but this doesn’t sound like an “American soldier of fortune” to me.
Lee,
I really got a lot out of that breakdown – it’s one thing to know something’s not working instinctively but very edifying when someone can articulate it – thanks!
Wallace wrote Braveheart, which is a fine movie, but he also wrote and directed an adaption of The Man In The Iron Mask which was, well, not much better than the two paragraphs above.
At first, I thought Tono Rondone, but it didn’t hurt so bad to read it.
I would have had them plunge over the precipice or something. Still, when you’re well-published you’re well-published. Until then don’t write anything iffy.
That and the idea that wolves attack humans is false. Horses sure.
I don’t mind mixed bags of metaphors when they’re good. I figure anything that conveys a solid feeling or idea is fair. But even if you take these individually, they don’t make sense.
To take a different approach than Lee took (hope you don’t mind, Lee):
Thin as starlight has the makings of an okay auditory image, or at least the beginning of one, but what the hell does “poised” mean here? What starlight is “poised?” What am I supposed to picture? And then how is blue snow supposed help the sense of thinness?
A bigger problem, though, is that nothing here says what the sound sounded like. We know it’s thin, and then there are some attempts to reinforce the idea of thinness. We know it’s either literally or figuratively a howl or cry. But nothing in the paragraph describes the sound. What sound am I supposed to be hearing in my mind’s ear?
No idea. Nothing’s actually evoked.
With no more presence than the memory of a vanished loved one is a bunch of words that contradict each other and don’t add up to anything meaningful. Vanished loved ones are, obviously, absent; but memories of them are, obviously, present. Boiled down, the construction of this simile is:
“As absent as something that isn’t absent.”
Then we’re told it’s also just as inescapable across the face of the world. But how can something that doesn’t have presence be chasing somebody across the face of the world?
Lots of intended fanciness; very little meaning. Lots of attempt at mood without actually thinking about what’s being said. The meanings of the words have been ignored because the writer liked how they sounded. Words have both sound and sense. Ignore the sound and nothing comes alive; ignore the sense and you’re writing babble.
A very sneaky and snarky way to get in a jab, Lee…heh, heh. Good one.
A very good friend gave me a copy of this book for my birthday. The premise sounded great. But I couldn’t quite make it through the fifth chapter. I DID use it to read at night in bed. Honest to God, I’m not just piling on here. It took me a second, but I recognized that name and that style BEFORE I logged in for a comment.
I’ll take Gore Vidal for historical fiction any day. “Well-researched”, my ass… Sorry, Randall. Keep trying. You’re bound to get a hit someday.
Later.
And these people get published? That just makes me cry on the inside (or is it howl?)
This is great stuff, thanks Keith!
Glad you found them useful, Joshua.