A bad beginning

 Beginning to write a story is usually a mess. Recently, when trying to encourage someone just starting out, I opened up the rough draft of The Centaur Choice. Phew, what a mess! 

The first two and a half pages are entirely notes: names, character arcs, overall edits, relationship notes, biology, historical influence, and a written down argument with myself about the number of main characters. Then I finally get to a bit of story... which is clearly labeled "This chapter is now backstory only."

Then we finally get to a chapter that actually appears in the book, but it's filled with false starts and my own critique of each start:

Sunlight flashed on her father and brother’s guns as Bree waved out the window.  

Bree choked back a scream as she stared at the shriveled ear in her father’s pouch. 

Nope, neither of these is quite right. We want to start with a hint that something is wrong, I think, but not go straight for the ear. 

 

A gunshot made Bree flinch. 

 

Bree flinched as a gunshot cut over every sound in the courtyard. For half a second, everyone fell silent. Then the chaos resumed: men on horseback calling to one another, hooves clopping against the cobblestones (or hard packed earth if we go that route), dogs barking, children laughing and threading through the hunters with abandon. 

At least, most of them. Bree spotted a pair of young servant children who cried and covered their ears. She left her place at the top of the flat, low stairs leading to the house, and went to comfort them. 

 

Okay, I like that this shows her nature, showing the matriarch she will become, but I feel like being nice to children is cliché and overdone. 

At least we have a picture of this scene. She’s standing on the top of these low, flat stairs. The house has a Santa Fe style with a flat roof, maybe red tiles on some of the wings. Something like one of the California missions. Bree has long black hair, well-cared for that shines in the sun. She’s wearing a dress of red with black accents, but she doesn’t like how it emphasizes her chest and is too tight over her hips, limiting her walking. It’s a dress to be seen in, not to do anything. 

But we can’t have all of that description on the very first page without some action or movement to go with it. 

Maybe we should use Seven Sages as a guide. Except that I don’t want to start after everybody left.  

Okay, let’s just try this: 

 

Bree squeaked, a sound muffled by the chaos outside, and stared in horror at the severed ear in her hand. Wrinkled and dehydrated, it appeared human except for the tapered tip. Ears belonged on heads, not on a desk in her father’s study.  

 

Okay, I feel like this is much too gruesome a beginning for a “sweet romance”. We just lost all of our target audience. It might work later on, but not right here. 

Looking at Fae Bride, it starts with seeking her father’s approval, and getting rejected.  

 

Over all of the chaos in the courtyard, Bree stood still as stone, topping the low, flat stairs like a figure on a cake.  

 

Bree topped the low, flat stairs like a figure on a cake, displayed to all of the chaos in the courtyard. She fixed her eyes on the statuary in the center, the figure of a rearing horse carved in exquisite detail. Sunlight gleamed off of its head, patted by so many visitors that it retained a sparkling finish. Look away, and she’d get dizzy. Horsemen rode across the courtyard, their mounts pounding walkways and shrubberies alike.  

“Straighten your shoulders,” Marc hissed from the corner of his mouth. 

Bree straightened, uncomfortably aware of the low cut of her red dress. She pulled her black lace shawl tighter across her chest, but Marc tugged the ends from her hands, forcing it to hang uselessly from her shoulders. She knew how to play the darling, well-behaved daughter, but available, well-desired heiress was a foreign role with steeper consequences.  

Marc towered over her, with clothes as black and shiny as Father’s prized stallion, from broad hat to high boots. Bright silver embroidery and a red necktie kept him from disappearing completely into shadow. 

A gunshot cut through the chaos, leaving a half second of silence in its wake. Then the horsemen crowded around Father, who still held his pistol high in the air.  

She didn’t listen to his little speech.  

 

Or should I write out his little speech? The details aren’t important to the story as much as they are to the characters. It’s Bree and Marc who are more important. How do I lead the focus there? I’d like to have Bree and Marc talk, but it’d be tough to avoid as-you-know dialogue. 

 

“Stop that,” he hissed, pulling the ends of the shawl from her hands. “They don’t want you for your face!” 

Her cheeks burned. Father would not be so mean, but he was lost among the chaotic, dusty crowd. 

 

To compare, here is the published opening to the book: 

 No one else would have saved a snake, but Bree had a soft spot for unloved creatures. When a brawl in the courtyard demanded all attention, she slipped down two of the wide estate steps and dropped her handkerchief over the snake. She picked it up and slipped it into a hidden pocket of her flowing red skirts. Hopefully the handkerchief would conceal its scent from the horses crowded into the courtyard. He could hide in her pocket until she found a private moment to let him go. 

Bree straightened as though nothing had happened and returned to the top of the stairs, displayed to all of the chaos of the courtyard. As the brawl died, attention shifted, and far too many eyes turned in her direction.  

All around her, men on horseback trampled paths and lawn alike. Dogs barked. Servant children laughed and threaded through the hunters with abandon. Only a few carried muskets today, and even fewer brought game sacks to carry home wild turkeys or hares. They still made her nervous. 

“Straighten your shoulders,” her brother Marc hissed from the corner of his mouth. 

Bree straightened, uncomfortably aware of the low cut of her red dress. She’d loved the flowing skirts and thick black belt until she’d tried it on. Now she pulled her black lace shawl tighter across her chest.  

 “Stop that.” Marc pulled the ends of the shawl from her hands. “My estate needs you to make a good match. Men don’t want you for your face!” 

Her cheeks burned. What was wrong with her face? He must know about such things, and she did want the best for the estate. Still, she doubted that he’d say such things in front of Papa. Their father was lost among the chaotic, dusty crowd.  

Hopefully this is encouraging. Your first draft might be a complete disaster, like mine. Hopefully it's better. But even an unholy mess can be cleaned and polished into something that works. Hang in there and write on! It gets easier, I promise!