How to start your novel
First impressions count, but when it comes to fiction what matters most?
Keep scrolling to read my new opening chapter.
I don’t know how to start your novel, and I’d be confident in saying no one else does either. I’m currently writing my third novel — I’m fifty thousand words in — and this week I’ve been obsessed with the start. Some of you will think, Why are you obsessing over the beginning when you haven’t finished the first draft? Or perhaps you’re the type who perfects as they go, and it crazes you to think I’ve marched fifty thousand words downstream without having confidence in my opening chapters. Maybe you’re right — I still feel out of my depth.
But over the last five years, I’ve settled into a familiar, if inefficient, method of writing. And so far, it has worked for me, producing a book every year or so. Once an idea has haunted me for a month, I’ll start writing, and I’ll keep going until I’m lost. This allows me to shape and define my main characters. Then, after I have my characters in my mind, I start thinking more seriously about the plot. That’s when I return to the beginning.
This time around, I had to change some details to make everything work. But I also questioned the style of the beginning. Originally, my opening chapter started by outlining the premise of the whole book via an internal monologue. While this can work nicely, I felt it was a bit of a punch in the mouth as an opening (you can read that unedited opening here). So I switched things up, opening with a softer approach. I wonder what works better, or what style of opening people generally prefer. My wife said, “Jump straight into the action,” but that too seems out of character for my style. So I’ve settled on this, and I’ll keep it that way — until I have another crisis of confidence.
Chapter 1
This chapter is unedited
My balcony used to be a bay window before the previous owner replaced the glass with a wooden banister. The result is a balcony with a roof, two unwanted spotlights, and three panes of stained glass which cast red and purple shadows along my living room wall. Plus, there’s an extra meter squared of floor space. A metal sheet serves as a durable floor, though in the height of summer, it becomes a frying pan. I could probably grow a couple of pots of tomatoes, or maybe, with the western sun and long afternoons, a chili plant. I tried gardening in my first year of university, during that golden period between independence and cynicism, when everything feels easy enough to try and failures turn into fun anecdotes you can use at house parties. That summer I ended up with four dead plants and nothing to show for my efforts aside from a fling with a pretty blonde. There’s a bus stop, a road, and a pavement below my balcony. Busy by the city’s standards, quiet if you compare it unfairly. My balcony is about the only one to face onto the road, which has always surprised me given the afternoon sun. But even though it stands out, a glossy pair of teeth jutting out from the tan-coloured building, hardly anyone looks up. And when they do, it’s just a glance, nothing more, as if I'm a pigeon perched on the banister.
There are times, early in the morning—or very early in the morning—when I sit out here in nothing more than my underwear. I’ve always found it hard to sleep in summer, and when there’s no breeze, I usually end up here. At that time, the road is abandoned, its silence only disturbed by the whine of the airport bus or the revving engine of a drug dealer's German car. It’s one of the only times I pick up a book. The other is whenever I commute to work. I suppose that’s why I’m always covered in little red bites and why I struggle to keep tabs on whatever story I’m reading. There are people who read to learn or get inspired. Then there are those who want to escape to a different world, to imagine themselves as a prince or a princess. For me, though, I read to pass the time. Often re-reading whole chapters without noticing.
This morning I finished another book, Night Train by Martin Amis, and gathered another dozen red bites on my arms and back. The worst is between two knuckles on my right hand. I tried to sleep after I turned the final page and managed a meagre hour, but now I’ve missed my chance. Saturday mornings are when the city is at its busiest, and today there’s something extra going on. Tour buses are parked at the bus stop, exhaling a mix of tourists—some old, others young—all wearing a lanyard around their necks as if they’re a herd of cows with bells.
“Excuse me.” My British politeness has never left me, even after ten years in a new country. If I’d assimilated properly, I’d have started my day with a sting as I opened my door to a family crouched around it. English isn’t their first language—perhaps it doesn’t even register at all—and they stare up at me as I tiptoe around them. It’s a muggy day, with grey clouds trapping the last three days of heat beneath them, and I feel sticky by the time I reach the end of the road. Here there’s another flow of bodies, all moving in the same direction, as if the city centre is pulling them towards it. I swim upstream, working my way between families and couples and groups of friends with tinnies in their hands. The little second-hand bookshop is open as usual but hasn’t managed to entice any of the new faces through its door. As usual, the old man is reading, cheek planted firmly in the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the Victorian desk he uses as a counter.
“Good morning,” I said, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the bottom of my T-shirt. He gives me a little grunt and a firm nod in reply—his usual welcome. Regular visits award me that nod at the door, but nothing more, because we have nothing to talk about.
“Have you finished Gatsby yet?” he used to ask. It’s his favourite book, I learnt on my first visit.
“Haven’t started.” In the fifth week, he stopped asking, and he's resorted to a firm nod ever since. I head straight to the back shelf where the cheapest paperbacks are kept. There’s not much point spending money on books when you only read them to pass the time. People say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but that’s all I do—though my judging criteria is perhaps a little odd, since I look for wear and tear, not pretty design. My logic goes as follows: the more wear and tear, the more popular the book, and therefore the more readable it’ll be. There’s nothing worse than starting a book that takes an age to adjust to, as if you’re suddenly expected to read a new language. There’s a beaten copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, it’s one euro and I’ve heard of it, so I take it to the counter and swipe my card.
“Have a good day,” I say as I leave, and he grunts again. This one is a little warmer than the first. On my way home, I loop past the market square and find it as it usually is—families, friends, couples, tour guides, and groups all vying for position among the stalls. From there I continue south, following the stream of people, listening to their conversations, trying to glean what they might all be heading towards. There’s a chain of four girls in front of me, linked together by the crook of their elbows. The second from the right has squeezed into a pair of denim shorts, and the seam looks painful against her pale skin. The two on either end of the chain tower over the rest, their loose linen trousers flapping around their ankles. Second from the left is wearing a pleated mini skirt, the type which teeters on the edge between modesty and scandal, but looks beautiful doing it—a magician toeing the line between enchantment and discovery. Her hair is vibrant orange, and I can’t decide if it’s natural or dyed. The further we get, the tighter the crowd becomes, and I find myself being almost pushed the rest of the way, now and then losing my balance for a fraction of a second. I realise what’s going on when I start to hear the music, but now I don’t have the opportunity to move. A beat thuds in the air, turning our idyllic park, with its roaming deer and petting zoo, into a festival field—fully kitted out with a main stage, a secondary tent, dixie toilets, and crowded bars. People are restless now, in the final stages of their journey, queuing at the makeshift gateway. The chain of girls has been broken, and now the mini skirt is standing on my left, her orange hair brushing against my shoulder. She says something in Dutch and I pick up the word ‘book’ and glance at her, unsure why my ignorance gives me a sense of pride.
“Sorry, my Dutch is rubbish.”
“I said, why did you bring a book?”
“I didn’t mean to. Where are your friends?”
“They’re just up there.” She nods ahead, but all I can see is a canvas of heads and hair.
“What is this anyway?”
“It’s a day festival. You didn’t know?”
“No. I never know what’s happening in this city.” She laughs a little and looks down at my book.
“What are you reading?” she asks, and we shuffle a couple of metres closer to the entrance. I flip the book to its cover and she reads the title. “I’ve heard of that. It’s a classic, right?”
“I suppose so.” We creep forward another metre and now I can see her friends, waiting for her on the other side of the security check. They’re whispering to one another, giggling between sips of their tinnies. “I see your friends.”
“Where?” She rises on her tiptoes, but she’s too short to get a view over the towering Dutch men in front of us.
“Just the other side.”
“I’m Floor, by the way. What’s your name?” she asks, lowering herself back to her usual height. Her eyes are light brown with a green mist. There’s a small dark mole just below her chin, only visible when she looks up at me.
“James. Nice to meet you.” She holds out her right hand and I shake it—her fingers feel as if they might crack if I apply any pressure. We move again, this time making it to the men and women in hi-vis jackets. There’s an exit on my right, presumably for those who fail the entry test. The hi-vis bag checkers are being thorough, handling one person at a time. Floor goes ahead of me, unzipping her bag for the hi-vis woman to check. Again, I can see her pleated mini skirt performing its magic trick against the light breeze. Someone has just run on stage and is whipping the crowd up with the usual gimmicks. Let me hear you! I love you, Haarlem! Are you ready to get down?! Though those are just guesses because everything is communicated in Dutch. Then, as the crowd roars, the drummer kicks into gear and the tramped, dusty ground beneath my feet is startled into life. I turn towards the exit and a hi-vis man puts his tattooed arm out across my chest.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.” He smiles and lowers his arm. Over his shoulder I catch Floor’s eye—she’s zipping up her bag. She smiles too, but hers is an invitation.
“Nice to meet you, James!” she shouts over the thudding music, and I walk home, avoiding the usual route and winding back through the city’s cobbled alleys, thinking about Floor and her mini skirt and whether or not I should have asked for her number. I can hear the music all the way back home—about two and a half kilometres, a mile and a bit for my British brain. I’ve never gotten used to that conversion. My stomach rumbles as I untie my shoes, so I make myself a tuna mayo sandwich, eat it standing at the counter, then sit on my balcony and turn the first pages of The Picture of Dorian Gray.
If you’re lucky, you might stumble upon one or two redirections in your life: an undiscovered avenue in the city you grew up in, an unfamiliar face in a crowd of friends, striking up a conversation with a pretty girl in a festival queue, or an invitation waiting on your doorstep. These are opportunities, not guarantees, and for every one that’s taken, there are thousands that aren’t. I’ve passed on a few already—once out of a lack of courage, another, I like to think, because of some intelligent foresight. I can’t help but think Floor was one of those opportunities. How often do I start speaking with a stranger so organically these days, instead of prearranging a time and place after some meaningless small talk online?
For those of us who pass, there is a garden of ‘ifs and buts’ left behind to germinate in the back of your mind. Both ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ look harmless when they first break through the soil; soon, though, they flourish into a mat of ivy, slowly but surely suffocating any remaining will you might have for future opportunities. In effect, they weigh you down, making it hard to move. If you’re unlucky, these redirections will come too often, knocking you off-kilter each time you haul yourself back to your feet. Imagine meeting a Floor every weekend—there would be no stability in your life. There aren’t too many people who have to deal with that, though. But we all know one: always restless, never satisfied, smiling through the turmoil in their head. Because for them, they’re not weighed down by a mat of ‘ifs and buts’; they’re torn apart by love and loss, grief and gifts. No matter where they find themselves, they’re looking for the exit, sizing up their next adventure, wondering how they’ll find their next fix.
My weekend petered out with British television on Sunday night—Antiques Roadshow, to be precise. There’s nothing quite like watching strangers discover the value—or lack thereof—of their family heirlooms in front of a nosy crowd to put you to sleep. Sarah from Islington brought her mother’s earrings, supposedly gifted to her from her first love. Gold leaves painted on jade stones hung from a golden link, confidently pinned to the mid-Ottoman Empire. The next thing I knew, it was two in the morning.
Work dragged in the heat, cooped up in the attic office with no AC, and I left before the rest came back from their four o’clock meeting. I’m not the only one who smells around me, but I might be the worst. Beams of sunlight force me into a squint as I leaf through the second chapter of The Picture of Dorian Gray. A conductor blows a whistle a little too close to my ear and I can’t help but wince, then I feel a push on my shoulder. It isn’t very hard—more like a poke; not firm enough to flood my blood with adrenaline, but enough to lift my gaze and crease my brow.
“Sorry.” Her eyes catch me off guard, almost completely golden, as though they’re mirrors reflecting the afternoon sun.
“No worries,” I reply, smile, and return my gaze to page twenty-two. Pink nail varnish and dry knuckles take its place, delicately pinching a note written on an old receipt between index finger and thumb.
“My train’s about to leave. Give it some thought,” she says, placing the Sky Lounge receipt in the fold between pages twenty-two and twenty-three. A puff of warm air brushes my cheeks as I snap the book shut. I look up, tracing her between the crowd flowing from the train that has just arrived. An ordinary pair of Levi’s hug her waist, a white T-shirt ripples in the breeze, and clean white trainers plot their way between the flood of people. Her brown hair turns ginger where the sun lands.
She might be my first redirection, I think, holding my book in my clammy palm as I board my train, heading in the opposite direction.
Love, Luke