by James Scott Bell

We have a thriller first page for critique today. Read it and join me on the other side.

At first the sound didn’t trouble him. The lake’s placid. Minimal wind.At least two miles away. Maybe a chainsaw.Still … Anthony grabbed his military-grade binoculars from the wooden chest. He knew details would be hazy in the mountains in mid-October, especially at dusk. But it was worth a look.

Not a chainsaw.

A motorboat. Sprinting north. Maybe five minutes out.

Anthony King had enjoyed three years ofperfect solitude. No phone calls. No visits. Few concerns. Three more weeks until the first hard frost. Need to split more wood, check the roof for loose shakes, maybe head into Stehekin for supplies.

A decade ago, he’d been the only Asian in his Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL class. At five feet nine and a hundred sixty pounds, he was an average-sized well-muscled Korean American. But BUD/S—the first phase of a program based entirely on merit—hadn’t conferred brownie points for his ethnic background. That’s how he liked it. In school he never cheated on tests. He preferred actually earning his grade, even if it meant settling for a C instead of an A. To him, garnering kudos for grade he didn’t deserve was stupid, asinine. Cheaters were losers.

At age nineteen, Anthony was one of 114 young men who signed up for the rigorous SEAL program. Many were exceptional athletes. But most quickly learned that outrunning someone at a track meet or pinning a wrestling opponent or grabbing the most rebounds in a basketball game didn’t guarantee success. A year after starting BUD/S, Anthony was one of only six from the original cadre to receive the coveted SEAL trident. Most dropped during “hell week”—day after day of sleeplessness and chilling cold, when they’d struggled to steer rafts along the turbulent Pacific coast and jogged down the Coronado beach until their sand-covered thighs ached from chaffing and strain. Some quit because of injuries. Others settled into supporting roles. Several restarted one of three training phases. But the majority threw in the towel—or, more precisely, rang the brass bell three times—signaling their intent to “drop on request.” For them, the dream—or nightmare, depending on one’s perspective—was finally over.

Anthony raised the binoculars again. The boat was drawing closer. Definitely heading toward his dock. He stepped into the cabin and lifted the Glock 19 from his holster on the nightstand. Checked the chamber—loaded, as always.

***

JSB: Writer, in our archives are years of first-page critiques, many of which deal with how do deal out backstory (which makes up the bulk of your page). Click here and do some reading. See also John Gilstrap’s  post on managing backstory, and my post wherein I say:

A wise writer (I’m not sure who) said, “A story begins when you light the match, not when you lay out the wood.” Give us some heat from the get-go.

It doesn’t have to be high heat. Just something that disturbs the Lead’s ordinary world. A portent of things to come.

I’ve critiqued many a manuscript at writers conferences, and when I find a “lay out the wood” opening it’s usually because there’s too much backstory. The author thinks the reader has to know a certain amount of information to understand what’s going on.

Not so! Readers will wait a long time for background information if they’re seeing a disturbance happening on the page. My axiom is: Act first, explain later.

You begin promisingly. And then it’s like you drop in a character dossier writers sometimes prepare in their pre-planning. Let’s do your opening this way (with minor tweaks by me):

At first the sound didn’t trouble him. The lake’s placid. Minimal wind.At least two miles away. Maybe a chainsaw. Still … Anthony grabbed his military-grade binoculars from the wooden chest. He knew details would be hazy in the mountains in mid-October, especially at dusk. But it was worth a look.

Not a chainsaw.

A motorboat. Sprinting north. Maybe five minutes out.

And definitely heading toward his dock.

He stepped into the cabin and lifted the Glock 19 from the holster on the nightstand, and racked the slide.

Now we’re cooking. Immediate threat. What do we know about Anthony? He’s hiding in the mountains, has a military background (or equivalent) and can handle weapons. That’s enough to keep us reading.

But wait, you say, we don’t know about his background and training. You’re right! And that creates mystery, which is what keeps readers reading. (Hint: All page-turning fiction runs on mystery, meaning we want readers wondering Why is this happening? What’s going to happen next? I need to keep reading to find out!)

My suggestion to you is write this whole chapter/scene with nothing but action. Make it work like you were watching it on a screen.

Then step back and look at all your backstory information and ask yourself:

1. What part of it is absolutely essential for the readers to know on the first pages? (Hint: Your answer should be Not that much.)
2. How can I provide that info in the fewest words possible?

Save the rest for later.

One exercise I’ve given to writers is this: In your first 5,000 words, you can have three sentences of backstory, used all at once or dropped in separately. In your second 5,000, you can use three paragraphs of backstory, all at once or separately.

At the very least, this will force you major in action. You’re writing a thriller, after all. And the material you have here is promising. Now comes the skill part: how to deliver on the promise in the most effective way. That, of course, is the meta-task for all us writers. Welcome to the club!

And now I will leave it to our community of commenters to chime in with their suggestions.