#writer's digest

[mysticpatrolsong]

Writer's Digest

Volume 72 Number 3

March

1992

[writing-with-olive]

Hi I'm amateur writer anon and I'm asking this question to the entirety of writer tumblr askboxes (ones where I can ask anonymously) about one of my biggest weaknesses in writing: the first opening sentence/paragraph. Please give me some advices on how to write an intriguing first sentence/paragraph so that the readers can get more into it and i can also get right into writing it :(

Hey anon!

So this is one of the things I haven’t put a ton of thought into yet (I’m in dev edits so polishing any given line/paragraph is less of a priority), but I have found some resources that I think you may like:

HIGHLY RECCOMEND: This video that has 20+ examples that are broken down, both why they’re effective and sorted into catagories: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTh5NzLw_dw

This one is like the above, but a little less in-depth if you don’t feel like sitting down for 35 minutes https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kPVzmT0jyM

An article from Writer’s Digest: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-fiction/7-ways-to-create-a-killer-opening-line-for-your-novel

The second two focus more on just the first line, but as you seem to be getting at in your question, it’s often the first paragraphs that really sell it. As readers, most people aren’t fully hooked with just the first line. It’s how it feeds into the rest of the page that really gets things going. 

Another thing to note is that your first line/paragraph DOES NOT need to be perfect when you start your draft. You’re going to be discovering a lot more about the tone and style of the piece, even if you’ve outlined, just by writing it. Also, you’re probably going to make enough changes that your first line is unlikely to remain your first line through the entire process. While the above tips are useful to really focus in on the beginning of your story, if your main focus is to get into writing it, reader’s opinions about the way things are written are less of a concern. You may just try writing something dramatic and moving on - otherwise it may be hard to ever get past the first page. 

Hopefully these resources are helpful. Happy writing!

[creativeprompts]

Constantly push yourself to improve and hone your craft. Keep writing. In fact, write the next book while you're waiting to hear back from agents. Each novel that you write is a chance to be much better than you were before. This can be a challenging business, but stay tough! Never stop writing.

Danielle Burby, Nelson Literary Agency LLC

[iamanartichoke]

[writingdotcoffee]

NaNoWriMo Inspiration: 8 Novel Writing Tips & Insights from Successful Authors

We've selected some helpful novel writing tips from authors who have been interviewed in past issues of WD to assist you in getting your story on the page.

[ellawritesficssometimes]

YES ACTUALLY. OUCH.

[scribblingsofstu]

In a Moment

So many things can happen

In just one short moment

Undying love may be spoken,

Or a heart may be broken.

Calmness may be captured,

Or a temper is fractured.

A creative spark can be lit,

Or a life’s work left in bits.

  In one moment life is granted,

In the other Death is planted.

One big bang birthed us all,

Another could be our downfall.

No moment must be taken lightly,

We must hold onto them tightly,

As if every little, tiny one

Might be our very last.

[amanda-writing-blog]

Things Grow

Short story originally submitted for Writer’s Digest “Your Story #79″ competition.http://www.writersdigest.com/your-story-competition/story-79-submit-now?platform=hootsuite  in response to this image:

Things Grow

by A.R. Gillespie

Maggie sat staring out the frost-covered panes, seeing the shrubs and vines of evergreen covered in a sugary icing of snow. She ran her hand through Mocha’s soft crisping fur, the dog also gazing intently out the window, probably at the squirrel skittering about their front yard, not the old woman puttering about next door in a long red coat, digging the frosty ground, turning up dark earth from snow-frosted sod.

“Maggie,” Mom said, disapproval in her glare. “Come away from the window. It’s not polite to spy on the neighbors.”

“What’s Mrs. Albrook doing?” Maggie asked, turning over her shoulder toward their orderly home. “Is she planting something?”

“She’s senile,” Mom said. “Go wash your hands and practice your piano lesson.”

Maggie made her way out into the chill air, wrapped in layer upon layer like a cocooned grub, Mocha bounding along at her side, tail wagging, nose everywhere. She ventured to the yard next door, her boots leaving satisfying prints across the white world as she went.

“Hi,” Maggie said, going up to Mrs. Albrook, watching her turn up fragrant dark earth, placing little bulb things, and then sweeping the dirt back over them, as if tucking them in.

“Hi,” Mrs. Albrook returned,  a big smile cracking across her craggy face, glowing pink from the cold.

She continued planting.

“Whatcha’ doing?” Maggie asked.

“Planting,” Mrs. Albrook told her, handing her one of the brown-pearl bulbs to inspect.

“Are they onions?” Maggie asked.

Mrs. Albrook chuckled. “For now. But they’ll be something else in the spring.”

Mocha sniffed the dirt, then started digging.

“No, Mocha!” Maggie said, rushing over to pull Mocha away, but Mrs. Albrook laughed.

“Oh, let her,” the old woman said, shaking her head. “I haven’t dug there yet. She can do the work for me if she wants.”

Maggie let go of Mocha’s collar. She guessed that made sense.

“Why are you planting in winter?” Maggie asked.

“I’m a little late this year,” Mrs. Albrook said, nodding, as she placed a few bulbs in a hole and then covered them.

“Will they grow?” Maggie asked.

“Things grow, child,” Mrs. Albrook assured her. “Things grow.”

Maggie helped Mrs. Albrook plant her little bulbs, listening to a story about a cricket and a Romanian clockmaker. Afterward, there was hot cocoa and marshmallows in a livingroom like a museum, except that Mrs. Albrook didn’t mind if Maggie touched the purple geodes (“They came out of the dirt; why would it hurt them to get dirty now?”) or the little wooden men from Germany (“Wood grows out of the dirt too, you know.”)  or the blue and white porcelain from England (“You wouldn’t break it, after being so careful with those bulbs.”)

Mocha napped in front of the fireplace. Mocha had never seen a fireplace, since Mom never let him in the living room.

When she got home, Mom made Maggie wipe her feet before taking off her shoes, and scrubbed Mocha’s paws even though Mrs. Albrook had already wiped the dirt off.

“Germs are invisible,” Mom said, scrubbing Maggie’s clean hands red and raw.

The snow was thawed and the air less biting when Maggie looked out the window to see Mrs. Albrook bending down, inspecting the grass, and then springing up and clapping her hands together delightedly, a big smile on her face. Maggie ran over as soon as she could, and Mrs. Albrook proudly showed off the first pale green spikes poking up from the ground.

Mrs. Albrook’s stories grew increasingly muddled as she forgot and repeated. There would come a time when the house would stand empty, when Mocha no longer trailed along in Maggie’s shadow. But every spring, Mrs. Albrook’s yard was more and more vibrant with daffodils, like tiny ruffled teacups of sunshine on delicate star-shaped saucers. There would be a dorm room window Maggie looked out instead, then an apartment window shared with yet another special person that Mom couldn’t stand. But always, in a pot, or a window box, or a little flowerbed of their own, Maggie carried the daffodils with her, each generation of bulbs giving rise to the next as softly and relentlessly as winter gave rise to spring.