Write, Wrote, Written


Beginnings
July 24, 2008, 1:59 pm
Filed under: Reading | Tags: , , ,

Booking Through Thursday

What are your favourite first sentences from books? Is there a book that you liked specially because of its first sentence? Or a book, perhaps that you didn’t like but still remember simply because of the first line?

“It was a dark and stormy night….”

Okay, just kidding.  My actual favorite first sentence, currently, is from Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, which is, “Some years ago there was in the city of York a society of magicians.”

It sets the tone perfectly for the rest of the book, which is written in the same wry, matter-of-fact style.  In the world of the novel, everyone takes for granted that magic exists (or did exist), and prominent English magicians from the past are just as well-known and revered as prominent literary figures.  In an unusual twist, the novel actually has numerous footnotes, which are just as entertaining to read as the rest of the book.

Speaking of dark and stormy nights, “It was a dark and stormy night,” is the actual beginning of the novel Paul Clifford by British novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton.  The full sentence is:

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is named after him, in which entrants attempt to write the worst possible opening sentence to an imaginary novel.

Also of interest may be TwitterLit, which is a site that publishes the first sentence of a novel, without the name of the novel or the author, twice a day, with a link to the novel on Amazon.com.



His Oldest Friend
July 13, 2008, 10:13 pm
Filed under: Writing | Tags: , , , ,

Adam sat bleary-eyed, in need of coffee in front of the last microfilm machine in the row in the second sub-basement of the university library. It was two in the morning, and he was poring over newspapers from the 1970s, looking for stories of unusual deaths, all because Steve said the man that attacked him wore a jacket with unusually wide lapels. It wasn’t even a lead. It was the suggestion of a lead, the hope of a lead, or as Adam was beginning to believe, a shot in the dark masquerading as a lead.

Steve had literally crashed into Adam’s life two years earlier. He had been walking back to his apartment from that very same library late at night. As he rounded a corner, Steve barreled into him with enough force to knock them both to the ground. As the struggled to their feet, Adam looked up to see the reason Steve had been running, and he immediately felt the cold lump of dread from in the pit of his stomach, as if he had swallowed a lead ball bearing. He saw glowing red eyes and gleaming white fangs. He knew what it was. He had seen it before. He grabbed the crucifix that hung around his neck, and he thrust it in the thing’s face. It recoiled, but it didn’t retreat.

They were in a standoff. A vampire, facing Adam and his crucifix, and Steve behind Adam.

Adam glanced briefly over his shoulder at Steve. Steve held up a wooden stake carved out of a tree branch. Adam’s body blocked it from the view of the vampire. They nodded at one another and then they both looked back at the monster. Adam counted down from three on his hand held behind his back. When he reached zero, he dropped the crucifix and stepped aside. The thing lunged forward and impaled itself on Steve’s wooden stake.

Thus did Steve reintroduce Adam to the dark world of Powers and Principalities most people refused to acknowledge, and one he thought he’d left behind. The friendship that they had formed that night had endured despite challenged both supernatural and mundane.

On occasion, Adam considered that he could have just walked away. After all, Steve was the lightning rod for the forces of darkness, not him. But Adam didn’t believe that it was a coincidence that Steve had run into him. Adam was the one person who could help him. Steve could say on more than one occasion that he was alive because of Adam.

In a way, Adam could say that he was alive because of Steve, though associating with Steve probably shortened his life expectancy. Adam used to joke than an atlas his mother had given him when he was five years old was his oldest friend. All his life, he had trusted books more than people. People left. Books didn’t. Even if a book told lies, it was always there to tell them. Adam had had to trust Steve from the moment they met.

And so, Adam sat in the library at two in the morning reading old newspapers, because Steve, his oldest friend, needed him again. He wouldn’t have changed a thing.