Our first page today comes from a novel called Things Unseen. My comments on the other side:
At the southeastern edge of California, there’s a slice of land the color of desolation. The air is staler than a week-old bread crust and drier than a burnt piece of toast. It’s a place like a daydream, suspended between consciousness and slumber. Like dawn, or sunset—a place of transitions. For over fifty years, one man had called this place home. I was on my way to meet him.
“Oriana,” I addressed myself aloud, “you’ve run out of gas.” I sat back from the wheel of my dad’s ‘95 Toyota Camry and imagined my existence fading across the desert landscape. I could see the Camry’s sand-colored exterior melting into an unpaved expanse. “Twenty miles from her destination, young woman collapses in the heat of the Mojave summer.” That would make great fodder for one of my novels. I lifted my gallon water bottle from the passenger’s seat and took a long drink. You needed water in the desert, but extra gas would have been nice, too. I stepped outside and surveyed the low mountain range ahead. The last station was fifty miles back. I should have known to stock up on gasoline. My family used to come out here every summer, after all.
I jumped at the sound of my cell beeping from my pants pocket. Low battery, huh? Even if I could get service out here, who would I call? 911? That rundown gas station? The National Park Service? No one would ever pass by here, except for that man, maybe. No one would—
Something glinted ahead, like the flash of metal beneath the sun. A mirage? It was heading in my direction. It moved quickly across the flat land at the foot of the mountains, morphing from a distorted ripple to a human form—on a bicycle?
A boy, about eleven or twelve, pedaled up to the front of the car. A veil of t-shirts shaded his face and neck. He got down from his bike, walked over to the open window by the driver’s seat, reached in with his right hand, and switched on the ignition. I just stood there, watching. I’ve been saved. He turned off the ignition and towards me. “Out of gas?” he said, lifting his headgear.
***
- Opening with a description
There’s a meme going around that you shouldn’t open your novel with a physical description. I don’t see anything wrong with it, so long as you make it clear it’s coming from a character’s perspective and there is some sort of disturbance involved.
Here we have a woman who has run out of gas in the desert, only we don’t know that until the next paragraph. The first paragraph ends with For over fifty years, one man had called this place home. I was on my way to meet him.
The problem I have with that is it isn’t disturbing. It doesn’t portend trouble or change or challenge. She could be going to see this man for tea.
If you were to keep the opening paragraph, and describe the desert and desolation, why not end the graph with: And I was out of gas.Then you’ve got an immediate sense of trouble.
But I would advise the author to reformulate the opening paragraph into action showing us the car running out of gas. Get that in early, give us the character, then bring in the setting.
- 1 + 1 = 1/2
This formula comes from Sol Stein, the noted writing teacher and editor. What it means is that two descriptions of the same thing don’t strengthen the effect, but dilute it.
In the first paragraph we have this: The air is staler than a week-old bread crust and drier than a burnt piece of toast.
That’s two similar descriptions. But they make the reader hold both simultaneously, and that takes away from the power of either.
So a simple rule is: don’t describe the same thing in two different ways in the same sentence. Choose one, the best one. Personally, I’d go with burnt piece of toast because burning goes with the desert effect you’re trying to establish.
But the first paragraph also gives us other desert descriptions: color of desolation, daydream, dawn, sunset. This comes close to fiction writing blunder #21 (as explained in my book 27 Fiction Writing Blunders – And How Not To Make Them!)––being too in love with lyrical. Readers don’t often connect with a lyrical opening or passage, unless it is so dang good it cannot be resisted (like the opening of Ken Kesey’s saga, Sometimes a Great Notion).
So major in action and disturbance in the opening.
- Attitude adjustment
When using First Person POV, it’s crucial to establish a discernable attitude from the get-go. Readers love a character who has some ‘tude, who has blood coursing through her veins. They want to hear a distinct voice. Like Stephanie Plum’s in Janet Evanovich’s High Five:
When I was a little girl I used to dress Barbie up without underpants. On the outside, she’d look like the perfect lady. Tasteful plastic heels, tailored suit. But underneath, she was naked. I’m a bail enforcement agent now—also know as a fugitive apprehension agent, also knows as a bounty hunter. I bring ‘em back dead or alive. At least I try. And being a bail enforcement agent is a little like being bare-bottom Barbie. It’s about having a secret. And it’s about wearing a lot of bravado on the outside when you’re really operating without underpants.
My advice to the author would be to spend some time really getting to know your character’s voice. Delve deep into her background and wounds and strengths and fears and yearnings and drive. Give her a real attitude about running out of gas. Get her angry about it. Show us more emotion. Re-write this opening page until it is soaked with voice and attitude.
- White space
A purely practical matter: most readers these days don’t respond well to long blocks of text. Your first two paragraphs should be four or five. It’s not hard to do, and it makes things easier on the reader.
- The boy on the bike
Here is where you can inject more attitude. Why does Oriana just stand there while a boy walks over and reaches into her car? This is a perfect time for an argument.
“Get away from my car!”
“You wanna die, lady?”
“Now!”
“You gonna shoot me or something?”
In other words, conflict. It’s basic, but so often writers leave it out in the opening pages. They set things up, describe landscapes and situations, and it’s only later that another character comes into the proceedings, and even then it might be a friend or ally and it’s Happy People in Happy Land (writing blunder #10).
I’m going to leave off here and let others weigh in, but I want to give this author a bit of good news. Your ability to write coherent sentences in a logical flow is sound. That’s not something easily developed or taught if it isn’t there in the first place.
So now it’s a matter of craft, which can be taught. I’ve given you my view of your first page, and now it’s time for others to do the same.
But I will say that a woman out of gas in the desert is a great opening disturbance. Work this page until is vibrates with attitude and emotion and conflict. Cut all flab. Do that, and I’ll want to go on to page 2.
I was intrigued by the stranded in the desert opening, but I didn’t really “feel” it like I hoped. Besides JSB’s excellent advice I’d add…when using first person, you need to have your protagonist think and speak like real people. I’m referring to the line “Oriana,” I addressed myself, “you’ve run out of gas.” We don’t think that way, therefore, the dialogue doesn’t feel authentic. If I ran out of gas, I might bang on the steering wheel, curse, get out and slam the door, but I certainly wouldn’t say, “Sue, you’ve run out of gas.” You have a compelling opening. If you work on the emotions I have no doubt you can make it shine. Good luck!
I agree with all the comments so far, plus I think there are some inconsistencies in the character’s voice, i.e., the lyrical is combined with “down home,” so the advice to spend time on the character’s voice is great advice.
I loved the ‘color of desolation’ and was expecting a lyrical voice throughout, but then that was followed by ‘bread crust…a burnt piece of toast.’ It may be that the writer wants the character to be more down home.
Regardless of the voice inconsistencies, I think this writer has a voice, and, in my opinion, everything starts with voice for the reader, although finding one’s voice can be a long journey.
Despite a few rough patches in the story, I wanted to turn to page 2 as I wanted to know more about the boy and did he present danger to the woman. She was pretty dumb not to watch her fuel gauge in the desert, so as a protagonist she has lost ground for me for being so negligent- I need a reason for such stupidity. I also wondered about the sub-genre of this book – was it YA mystery or perhaps a Mad Max world mystery…. I also want to thank JSB for his critique as that had great learning points in it.
This was an interesting one because it’s close…really close. Some nice stuff going on here, the beginnings of a solid character voice (but I agree with Jim that it wavers and doesn’t quite come in clear enough, sort of like a radio signal we can’t pull in if we’re driving in the desert).
I like the set-up of a desert trip to meet some man. But again, I agree with Jim and others that because you have made such a point of including this man in your opening, you have to give us a hint that he is a source of conflict or suspense. If he turns out NOT to be, well, we’re going to turn on you later.
As someone who’s driven from Vegas to Laughlin NV many times, I know what it’s like. (I saw that speck-spot town Searchlight in your gas station description!). But I have to agree with the other commentor that going out into the desert without at least four gallons of water AND a full tank of gas makes your woman look dumb as a stump. Esp since she’s been there every summer with family. You don’t want us to be wondering, as you try to build up tension and interest, why would I follow about a woman this clueless? (It also plays into stereotypes about women and cars).
Re description: I love openings that parachute me into a place and you definitely do this well. But as Jim put it so well, one shining image, simile or metaphor is what you what — not a string of them. Black dress with pearls…not every piece of bling in your jewelry case. This line: “The air is staler than a week-old bread crust and drier than a burnt piece of toast.” is almost there but as Jim said, you make our brains hold TWO images at once. And could it have been more visceral?
“The air had the taste and texture of burnt toast.” Don’t TELL us it’s stale. Make us feel it.
The introduction of the boy on the bike is interesting…I want to see what it going to happen. And I like how he morphs from blur to human, like Omar Sharif riding out of the desert in “Lawrence of Arabia.” But I am a little confused when he gets there. Her window is open? (Again, why if we are in the desert? Maybe she just leaves the door open?). His face is covered (you mention a veil of t-shirts) but she can see he’s about 11? Then he reaches in to fiddle with the ignition. As others have pointed out, why the heck would anyone allow a kid to do this? Just makes no sense. Plus there’s the whole believability problem of a kid trucking through the desert on a bike…but maybe this is a ghost?
One last thing, which goes to Jim’s point about the need for white space on the page. The eye needs relief, and a logical place for it is when you shift from one character to another.
“A boy, about eleven or twelve, pedaled up to the front of the car. A veil of t-shirts shaded his face and neck. He got down from his bike, walked over to the open window by the driver’s seat, reached in with his right hand, and switched on the ignition. I just stood there, watching. I’ve been saved. He turned off the ignition and towards me. “Out of gas?” he said, lifting his headgear.”
Try breaking it into three graphs:
A boy pedaled up to the front of his car. A veil of t-shirts shaded his neck and brow and I guessed he was maybe eleven or twelve. He got off his bike, went to the open driver’s side window, reached in and switched on the ignition.
The car came to life. I just stood there watching. I’ve been saved, I thought. (or put it italics)
The boy switched the ignition off and turned to me, lifting his veil. “Out of gas?”
Keep going, writer…you’re on the right road.
I really didn’t care for the lyrical style. To me, this is throat-clearing: The air is staler than a week-old bread crust and drier than a burnt piece of toast. It’s a place like a daydream, suspended between consciousness and slumber. Like dawn, or sunset—a place of transitions.” None of that tells me anything useful about place or character or plot. And more importantly, none of it hooks me at that crucial moment I most need to be hooked as a reader.
And “the color of desolation” clunked for me. It’s assuming that the writer/narrator’s view of desolation is universal, and it isn’t. To me, a Pacific Northwest native, desolation is midnight afternoons in mid-January, dank and dripping and deep-bone cold, black-blue, with skies as gray as cremated remains. That’s what makes figurative language a high-wire act: the author is gambling that what’s evocative to he or she will be equally so for the reader. They rely a lot on faith and assumptions and a shared empathy.
I found myself nodding as I read the Stephanie Plum passage. Not just because it’s so concise about establishing character and voice, but that it’s compact and smooth. There’s not a wasted word there. It’s got glide. This first page, despite its lyrical pretensions, does not have that same smooth flow. I’d like to see this author write his or her first draft in almost exclusively simple declarative sentences, and layer in lyrical nuance where useful and appropriate only in revision.
Also, I found myself annoyed by the POV character, who struck me as not particularly relatable or sympathetic. In fact, she seems unforgivably dim: Why did she run out of gas? Why doesn’t she have a vehicle charger for her cell phone?
You are right about one thing: A woman stranded in the desert is a promising opening. So this first page, despite the heavy red-penning I’d give it, is salvageable.
I agree with the comments — the running out of gas is the real opener. The scene setting in the opening paragraph struck me as overwrought. The author show promise, though.
Another thing, upon further review: This all takes place way too much in the narrator’s head. It’s not Close First Person; it’s Claustrophobically Close First. It has a fever-dream quality to it. For all the description, I have no clear image of where she’s at or what that place looks like. Show us the scene before you interpret it for us.
That would make great fodder for one of my novels. This should be in italics to correspond with the other thoughts in the piece.
I love the first line, but then it starts to go flat for me pretty quickly.
As a hobby, I keep a running story open that I call the worst noir novel ever written. It is a place for me to excise all my purple prose. The lavender-tinged descriptions of dry air are approaching my florid descriptions of humidity (“You begin to believe that you might actually be able to taste the air. Some locals believe you could actually carve yourself out a hunk if you tried hard enough.”)
That is strong spice, use it sparingly.
This paragraph is a whole lotta “tell.”
——————–
“Oriana,” I addressed myself aloud, “you’ve run out of gas.” I sat back from the wheel of my dad’s ‘95 Toyota Camry and imagined my existence fading across the desert landscape. I could see the Camry’s sand-colored exterior melting into an unpaved expanse. “
——————
I had a very good editor beat things like “could see” and “imagined my existence” out my me and my manuscript. Since I’m in her head, just see it instead of telling me I see it.
The boy thing doesn’t ring true at all. I’ve stopped in the desert on purpose to photograph or just ponder the silence. As a result, I’ve had would-be good samaritans stop. As soon as I saw the vehicle slow, I was inside the car with the windows rolled up. Unless I was hallucinating, no way I’d let someone touch my vehicle without being challenged.
And a veil traditionally covers the face, I had a vision of him riding with a t-shirt over his head like a hood.
This one isn’t working for me. I’d give it a few more pages, but it would have to leap forward quickly. Terri
I would continue reading this story, but I think Mr. Bell’s points of improving it are all valid.
One thing that felt a little forced to me was the boy on the bike, but only because of the language. It made me feel that the image from first notice until she recognized him was a long span of time.
“Something glinted ahead, like the flash of metal beneath the sun. A mirage? It was heading in my direction. It moved quickly across the flat land at the foot of the mountains, morphing from a distorted ripple to a human form—on a bicycle?”
I think where I read “at the foot of the mountains” I was thinking horizon on a “flat land” and to me that’s a lot of distance to cover in such a short period of time. I don’t know why I thought that, but I did! lol