There’s a pre-school across the street from my bedroom window with an inviting red door. I’ve been paying attention to doors and openings lately—and to this door in particular. This morning I watch a father dropping his little girl off for the day. She looks tense about it, and so does he. They are pacing a little, and so am I. Before she heads through the delicious red door, I shift focus, look at the books piled on my windowsill. I pick three first sentences at random from the story collections on top of the stack. I flip pages and point. I don’t search for a story I know, and I don’t reject any lines I happen to land on. And, yet, with no effort, I arrive at the three show-stopping first sentences below. I suspect that most of these authors’ first sentences are show-stoppers.
You hop into a car, race off in no particular direction, and blam, hit a power pole.
—Strangler Bob by Denis Johnson
Micah turned pro and the rest of us went regular.
—Peggy Park by Bryan Washington
At the family gathering, the great-grandmothers were put out on the sun porch.
—The Great-Grand Mothers by Lydia Davis
In an interview with The Paris Review, Joan Didion once said: “What’s so hard about that first sentence is that you’re stuck with it. Everything else is going to flow out of that sentence. And by the time you’ve laid down the first two sentences, your options are all gone.”
Okay, so maybe that’s putting too much pressure on that one little sentence. Joan was right that starters are pretty darn important, but instead of letting her stress us out, let’s dial it back. This week, I propose we pay attention to beginnings of all kinds while we turn off the compulsion to produce produce produce, to go somewhere. Let’s just stand still at the top of the mat. With our hand on the doorknob. Linger in the moment before the bloom. Before the kiss. Before the decision is made, the character dropped at school. Begin. And begin.
Today find a few literary magazines or story or poetry collections by anyone whose work you admire and randomly pick ten first sentences or lines. Pick from any story in the book. Ten from the same book or ten from different books. It really doesn’t matter. The only thing I might avoid are one-sentence stories. They will take you too long to write! The first time I did this exercise, I used Rift, the collection Kathy Fish and Robert Vaughan collaborated on. It was fun to guess who wrote each first sentence.
Copy by hand or type these ten sentences. Throughout the day, reread them. Maybe with tea. While you’re at work. Staring out your window. Let them enter your subconscious and roll around in the grass. Find the tension in them. The rhythm. Maybe read them out loud. Record yourself saying them and listen to the recording. How fast or slow do you find yourself reading? Is there something that makes you pause? Think about the word choice. The register. The voice. The images. What do these first sentences convey? What do they reveal about the main character or setting or conflict? What do they hide? Do they make you want to know more? Do they tell too much?
On the second day, notice the firsts that happen as they happen. The first thing you see when you wake. The first smell when you step in the shower. The first choice you have to make. The first time something in the news disgusts you. The first thing your boss says. The first moment of doubt. The first animal or cloud or broken thing. The first moment of anxiety. Of love or gratitude.
If you want to write a few of these firsts down, go ahead. But you don’t need to. This is more about awareness of first moments, of how anticipation feels, than it is about memorizing what they are. This is not about producing writing in your journal to use later and submit.
On the third day, do the same thing you did on the first. Find ten more sentences in different novels, collections, or lit mags. Write them down. Breathe them. Consume them. Sing them.
On the fourth day, think back to historical firsts from your life. What do you know about your birth? What is your earliest memory? The first moment you swam or read a book or rode a bike. Your first kiss. First sex. First valentine. The first time you felt afraid. Broke a bone, needed a stitch. The first time you did something wrong to someone. Your first memory of joy. Of god. This list can go on and on.
Feel free to explore any firsts you want. Maybe you will think about only one first for a long time and harvest all the details there. Maybe you will think of a single detail from many memories. Take notes on the memories if you want. How did they feel right at the start? What did you smell? Hear? What color do these moments make you think of? In particular, look for the anticipation, the feeling of possibility, the tension in your muscles, and dig deep there.
On the fifth day, reread the twenty sentences and any notes you took. No need to force this process, just let your subconscious do its work, unlock a bit. Now, write a first sentence. Write another. Don’t pause to judge them. Write five different first sentences. Set them aside. Come back to them in a few hours or the next day. Pick one or two to edit. To examine more deeply. This has been an exercise, a way to develop your muscles like skaters practice crossovers on ice. There’s no need to “do” anything with these sentences.
But … if you feel the urge, walk one a little further down the road. See what happens after you crash into the power pole.
