SOPHIE HANNAH

SOPHIE HANNAH is the internationally bestselling author of the psychological thrillers Little Face, The Truth-Teller’s Lie, The Wrong Mother, and The Cradle in the Grave. Those are the U.S. titles, anyway. Confusingly, some of her books have different titles in the United Kingdom, but they have the same first lines. Sophie is also a bestselling, award-winning poet. She lives in Cambridge, England.

It must have happened to me fifty times: People recommend that I read a novel, and then, when I ask for more detail about the book they’re trying to press on me, they say, “Oh, it’s incredibly gripping—once you get past page 157.”

“Aha,” I say, eyes narrow with suspicion. “Just so as I know—what’s it like before you get to page 157? Gripping-ish? Mildly engaging? Or are we talking . . . bearable?’

“Oh, gosh, not even approaching bearable!” they say with glee. “The first 156 pages are turgid and tedious, and nearly made me want to slit my wrists—but I persevered and it was so worth it. From page 157 to the end, it’s a masterpiece.”

Er . . . no, it’s not. If only the second half of a novel is brilliant, it’s not a half-brilliant novel—it’s a bad one. As my favorite crime writer, Ruth Rendell, once said, a novelist’s job is to grip the reader from line one, page one. Rendell is strict with herself, as every author should be—every single line of a book counts, she believes; every line should make it more impossible for the reader even to contemplate putting down the book. Read any first line of a Rendell novel (or of any of the books she has written under the pseudonym Barbara Vine) and you will feel an almost physical pull as the first line reels you in.

Her novel A Judgement in Stone, for example, begins: “Eunice Parchman killed the Coverdale family because she could not read or write.” It’s an incredibly risky opening line for a crime novel, because it appears to tell the reader all the things one waits in suspense to find out at the end of a book: who killed whom and why. However, in spite of this, the line works brilliantly, because it simultaneously tells you everything and nothing. You realize that knowing who did what and why is only the starting point—you need more detail; you crave the story summarized by those facts, in nonsummary form. If anything, Rendell increases the suspense by superficially telling the reader “everything” right at the start. Hang on a minute, the reader thinks, in a mild panic. Slow down—tell me properly. The authorial voice, by delivering the bare facts of the case in such a quick, perfunctory way, makes the reader feel almost as if she is being fobbed off, which increases the determination to find out the fullest version of the story.

Let me now make a controversial statement: It’s more important that a novel—a thriller especially—should have a great beginning than a great ending. Now let me quickly qualify that before anyone gets cross: Obviously, in an ideal world, the whole of the novel one is reading or writing should be great, and that is what we should all aim for.

But this is not an ideal world, and so I stand by my statement: In a nightmarish impossible-choice situation, I would always choose a brilliant beginning over a brilliant ending.

One of my favorite mystery authors, who shall remain nameless, writes a series of novels which all have endings that make me sigh with disappointment. And yet, when her new novel is published each year, I rush out and buy it eagerly. Why? Because I love her beginnings more than practically anyone else’s—her middles are pretty damn good, too—and for ninety-nine percent of the time I spend reading one of her books, I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. Yes, I’d prefer it if the endings were good, too, but you can’t have everything. And if her endings were stunning and her beginnings mediocre, I would never get past page 10.

My own approach to writing the beginnings of my psychological suspense novels—and it starts when I’m thinking about the first line—is to be as neurotic as possible. I remember Ruth Rendell’s wise words, and I think to myself, Okay—there are millions and zillions of novels out there. Probably most of them are better than yours. Anyone who picks up one of your books is going to suspect as much straightaway, and be looking for proof that he or she is right and an excuse to toss your novel aside and read one by a better writer. How are you going to stop that? What words can you put into your book right at the very beginning that will act like superglue, or crack cocaine, and make it impossible for anyone to stop reading?

A first line should be where a reader’s addiction to a novel begins. The second and third lines should then be equally addictive. Just as we want every part of our roof to be leak-proof, we must make sure every part of our manuscript is give-up-proof. The first line of your novel should be a bold display of the best you can do, promising more and better to come. It should say, “Look at me! If I’m this good now, at first glance, how much better might I get if you spend more time with me?”

To refer again to the opening of Ruth Rendell’s A Judgement in Stone, another great thing about it is that it’s effectively boasting to the reader, “If I can afford to give you up front all the stuff that other writers have to save until later, how many more goodies must I have up my sleeve for later in the novel?”

Once you’re sure you’re feeling neurotic enough, the next step is to add a dash of pessimism to your neurosis. When crafting the perfect first line to win over readers, do not imagine those readers to be warmhearted, open-minded types, willing to give a book a fighting chance. Assume your readers will be surly and impatient, with incredibly low boredom thresholds. Those are the people you have to please—which means you have to try even harder and do more pleasing. Usually, a writer’s harshest critic is him- or herself, so monitor your own reactions to your work. If you found a book that had the first line you’ve just written, would you carry on? Be aware if you’re starting to bore yourself, and, if you are, stop.

As well as gripping the reader, a first line should pose a question and/or give a sense of the flavor of the novel. The first line of A Judgement in Stone does this brilliantly—I can’t think of a more effective way for Rendell to have signaled to her readers that they’re reading a psychological crime novel. The elegant, poignant, sinister first line of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca—“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again”—tells you so much about the book. It tells you that a particular house, Manderley, is central to the novel; that a key theme is the way the past haunts the present; that the tone and mood will be atmospheric and haunted, not wisecracking and frivolous.

Writers should always try to make their first lines work as hard as possible: yes, they must grip, but they must also inform, and withhold, and tease, and sound good rhythmically to the inner ear. A first line should scare its author by promising more than it can possibly deliver—and then it should deliver. A book’s chances of securing a perfect ending for itself are massively enhanced if it has a perfect beginning.

EXERCISE

There are several stages to this exercise. You have to do them all. If you skip any, it won’t work.

1. Write the blurb of the novel you would love to write, in an ideal world. A blurb, not a synopsis—in other words, you don’t have to tie up ends or resolve anything. You can promise the earth, and end your blurb-promise with a dot-dot-dot, a “Wait and see what happens next.” Ask questions you can’t answer, make promises you fear you won’t be able to keep. All you need is the beginning of the idea, not the whole idea.

Your imagination is likely to be more ambitious if it isn’t terrified of failing to live up to expectations before it starts. For the time being, forget about the danger of disappointing people—if necessary, you can always run away and hide from the hordes of angry readers. Use your blurb to create massive expectations—you’ll find yourself living up to them, once you stop feeling scared, and you’ll be glad you didn’t play it safe.

2. Once you’ve written your blurb, imagine you’ve finished your book and it’s a masterpiece. (Don’t worry about the precise details of how this character’s going to have her plotline resolved at the end, or not being able to think of a brilliant twist.) Write two reviews of your own book—the one you haven’t written yet—by two made-up reviewers. Give them names if you want to. Both reviews should be praising your novel to the skies—and can be as general or specific as you want.

You might find one of your fantasy reviewers writing, “This book’s heart-stopping final scene haunted me for weeks.” And there you go: you have part of your recipe. You now know that, whatever else your novel might end up having, it’s got that wonderful final scene. Which wonderful scene, exactly? Well, that’s up to you—but it’ll help you to know that it’s there, waiting for you to think of it.

3. Now for writing your first line. Don’t sit down and try to write an awe-inspiringly brilliant first line, even though that’s what you’re hoping to end up with. If you do, you’ll be staring at a blank screen for months. Try, instead, to write an average-to-bad first line. Or, if you feel like it, a really terrible one. What line, at the start of your wonderful novel, would really wreck everything you’re hoping to achieve. Write it down, or type it up. Then ask yourself what’s wrong with it. Improve it. Keep improving it, which—at some point—will mean changing it altogether.

4. One of two things should happen now. Either you’ll keep improving and improving and end up with your brilliant first line, or (and this is more likely) while you’re busy trying to do this, a great first line—crucially, one that you’re not aware of having struggled to come up with—will suddenly present itself. You’ll be so sure you love it and it’s perfect that you won’t care anymore what I’m telling you to do. Your line will be so good that I can go to hell. Congratulations—you’ve done it!