Month: September 2011

More First Lines

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I wrote a post recently on the first lines that open books. Below are five more first lines and my thoughts about them…  I did cheat a bit in two cases, and I included the first few lines because despite the punctuation, I felt they were meant to be read together.

Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris.
We were fractious and overpaid.

I recently shared an excerpt of this novel, Joshua Ferris’ debut.  I loved the book, and identified with the humor of the ad agency world contained within it.  This first line is incredibly short and simple, but I think it grabs the reader very effectively.  The line clearly indicates the story will be about a group of people and have something to do with jobs.  The reason I love the line, though, is because of the use of the word “fractious.”  What an awesome word, and one I doubt I’ve seen in print anywhere!  Dictionary.com gives two great examples of the meaning and use of the adjective:

1. refractory or unruly: a fractious animal that would not submit to the harness.

2. readily angered; peevish; irritable; quarrelsome: an incorrigibly fractious young man.

Looking at this first line after having read the book, I couldn’t possibly pick a more appropriate opening line, and I think that also underscores it’s effectiveness.

The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss.
When they write my obituary. Tomorrow. Or the next day. It will say, LEO GURSKY IS SURVIVED BY AN APARTMENT FULL OF SHIT.

I absolutely love this first line, and I loved the novel.  The reader is introduced to Leo Gursky, the main character, and knows the story will be narrated by him.  It also immediately introduces sarcasm and humor, both of which are big pluses in my book.  The narrator’s name to me reads “quirky,” and I know that Leo is old or doesn’t expect to live long for some other reason.  If you’ve never read this book, go get it.  It’s brilliant.

The Sunflower, by Simon Wiesenthal.
What was it Arthur said last night?

This simple first line doesn’t tell the reader a whole lot, but it does instantly convey that he is not in top mental shape.  It sets the mood, though, as I quickly pictured myself with eyebrows scrunched, searching my memory for something I couldn’t quite remember.  I love that readers do that – fill in details themselves as they read, whether its’ picturing themselves or another person with an expression that’s well-described, or painting a picture in their heads of a character, even though only certain details are provided by a story.

Fool’s Crow, by James Welch.
Now that the weather had changed, the moon of the falling leaves turned white in the blackening sky and White Man’s Dog was restless.

This sentence primarily sets a scene, though it also introduces the main character and illustrates his general state of mind.  The language is descriptively rich, and continues that way throughout the book.  As a tale of Native American life, this type of description runs throughout the entire novel.  I don’t believe it is the type of first line that completely grabs the reader, but the question of why White Man’s Dog is restless is compelling, and the many references to nature, weather, and season do set a certain ambiance.

Lighthousekeeping, by Jeanette Winterson.
My mother called my Silver. I was born part precious metal part pirate.

Again, these statements are classic Winterson.  You know instantly that you’ll be reading a tale that has some fantasy in it.  Punctuation is missing, which subtly reinforces the concept that this character is  truly a combination of precious metal and pirate – there is nothing to separate the two elements of the character.  The unique and odd combination itself begs for more information, so I think these lines do their job.

 What are some of your favorite first lines?  Or, if you don’t have any off the top of your head, open up a couple books and jot them down – what do they do for you?

Quotes from my crazy great-grandmother

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This weekend, I went through my box of stuff. That box of letters, random medals I got in high school band, newspaper clippings about me or someone in my family – the stuff you keep because it seems important. I came across seven letters from my great-grandmother. I was never actually very close to her. She lived in Illinois, while the rest of my family lived in Wisconsin. We saw her once a year at Christmas, or at big events, like my confirmation, and it was always awkward because no one was close to her. She drove my grandma nuts, and she always made pointed statements that someone would take offense at.

When I was in my mid-twenties, though, I started writing to her. It began because I was planning my first international trip, to Thailand, and my great-grandmother had traveled extensively in Southeastern Asia, which was odd for anyone in my family, but doubly odd given her generation. She traveled before travel was so easy as it is today, and at a time when it was common to hire guides in foreign countries. She was the only person I knew who had traveled internationally, though, and I was curious about her experiences. She was 82 at the time I started this little communication stint, and her mind had already begun to decline some, so all I got from her was this:

“Our guide in Thailand was not one of our favorites. All he knew was about the film made there of The King & I. He also had his girlfriend along which I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to have done. Our guide in Hong Kong told us his name was Charlie Chang, but of course, it wasn’t.”

That was it. I would have loved to learn more, but she was a woman of few words. I’ve been meaning to talk to some relatives so I can capture some examples of the statements she used to make that offended people. I look back at these stories as amusing, but if I ever write about her, I want to be able to include some specifics. I will still have those conversations with family members that knew her better than I, but I found some gems in the letters she sent me. Below are a few.

“Don’t ever say anything, but [My uncle’s wife] always sends me a birthday card and says they will be up to take me to lunch, but never come here.  [A different grandson and his wife] are the only grand-kids that come to see me. they usually go home with a few treasures.”

She loved her “treasures,” random antiques and knick knacks she often bragged about, and dangled like bait  for those who did come to visit.  Then even when my uncle referred to above did visit, she said…

“[My aunt and uncle] stopped by for a day while they were with their golf group.  Haven’t seen the kids since a year ago X-mas and they sure have grown. [My cousin] isn’t quite the cry baby he used to be.”

That was her way of making a compliment.  She probably didn’t say that directly to my uncle, but even her compliments were thinly veiled judgments of one sort or another.  Another excerpt…

“Your grandmother ([Grandma’s name inserted here, as though I don’t know who she is]), is unhappy with me as I called [Grandma’s husband] early in June and told him I had a bladder infection, so she told me she wasn’t going to call me unless I call her. [My name], she never calls me anyway. I could lie here dead for a month and she wouldn’t know the difference. (Don’t say anything to her.)”

The underline in her letter was a bit squiggly, but it was there.  She loved to speak her mind, but always commanded me not to tell anyone what she said.  I’m positive she made random negative comments about me to others as well.  None of us was immune, which was probably the primary reason no one was every very close to her.  She was certainly a character, though.

“Went to a pig roast yesterday with my friend Ruth.  Farmers in her area have that each year.  I haven’t used salt for about 30 years, but they sure had enough on the meal yesterday.  Love, Grandma V.”

She spent her last ten years or so in a nursing home as her dementia escalated to the point where she didn’t really recognize anyone except possibly her own kids.  Her son had been working on getting her to move back to Wisconsin so she was near family as she aged, but she didn’t want to.

“He thinks I should probably move back to Wisc., but I have friends here and I like my Mobile Home.  Don’t want to live with a bunch of old ladies who want to know all your business.”

I love it that she always capitalized “Mobile Home.”  In the nursing home, she quickly developed a reputation as someone who spouted out insults to those around her.  Despite her biting remarks, I have respect for how she lived.  She got divorced after 40 years of marriage because she’d had enough of her husband’s drinking.  That takes a different kind of strength for someone that grew up in the 1920s than it does for people of more recent generations.  She was probably around 60, and she lived on her own after that, supporting herself, and doing things she enjoyed.  Her travels fascinated me, given how uncommon it is for people from my neck of the woods, and even more so for that travel to have occurred when it did.  I don’t know the exact dates, but it was definitely before 1970.  She passed away last December at the age of 95, and although we were never close, I’m glad to have known her.

Memory Loss

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The first campaigner challenge calls for a 200 word short story/flash fiction, beginning with the phrase, “The door swung open…” Below is my entry for the challenge. Enjoy!  If you are so inclined after reading, you can vote for it (#183) here.

Memory Loss

The door swung open – a door that was locked for years, guarding feelings of pain and loss, banished in the black cellar of my brain.  With it, my past attacked me, bent on revenge.  Debilitating anxiety replaced the solid thoughts that once roamed my mind.  Even when I try to look hard at the memories of my twenty-two year old self, face them down, give them their moment in the spotlight, I can’t locate them.  Instead, there is sorrow, confusion.  I rack my brain for details that will bring her back to life, if only on the pages.  Her death made it impossible for me to come to terms with our life.  I convinced myself it was something much smaller than it was – because she left me early – because I called it a relationship that wouldn’t have lasted anyway.  I minimized it in every possible way, no idea how much I was minimizing her, minimizing me.  I fumble through the few things I have left of her – a few letters, a prescription bottle – anti-nausea pills, a handful of photographs.  They don’t tell enough.  They don’t fill in the gaps that I so desperately need to fill in.

The Stone Gods

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I finished The Stone Gods, by Jeanette Winterson, yesterday. I have been working on making my way through the last half dozen or so things she’s published, and one of the things I love most about her writing is her ability to capture darkness, loneliness, sorrow, wonder, loss. The darkness that is inside all of us, the weighty parts of our souls, our inability to comprehend our place in the universe, or define the why’s of our experience, our existence. This is just a short passage from the book, but it spoke to me.

Far out, too far to see with the human eye or to hear with the human ear, is everything we have lost. We add to that loss feelings that are unbearable. Send them out into deep space, where we hope they will never touch us. Sometimes, in our dreams, we see the boxed-up miseries and fears, orbiting two miles up, outside our little world, never could rocket them away far enough, never could get rid of them forever.
Sometimes there’s a signal, and we don’t want to hear it: we keep the receiving equipment disused, we never updated the analogue computer. Shut off, shut down, what does it matter what happens if we can’t hear it?
But there it is – a repeating code bouncing off the surface of the moon. Another language, not one we speak – but it is our own.
I don’t want to recognize what I can’t manage. I want to leave it remote and star-guarded. I want it weightless, because it is too heavy for me to bear.

Great posts from around the blogosphere

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Below are links to some of the posts I most enjoyed reading in the past week.  Check them out!

Charlie Hale has such a graceful style about his writing.  This post, Friends and Lovers: In Passing Years, is particularly eloquent, though that can be said about everything he writes. Charlie has a way of reaching right into your soul with his words.

Julie Farrar wrote a post about road trips that will get you reflecting on your favorite car travel memories.

Check out this Star War’s fan’s well-written take on changes to a classic and who really “owns” art, anyway. I spent some time reading through other posts Graham has made, and his writing is insightful and thought-provoking. Don’t miss it!

I can’t resist another homage to the 80s, this one on favorite songs.

I’ve read a few of The Wandering Atavist’s posts about his horrible luck with women, and this one is hilarious, as are the others.

Enjoy!

Employment Update

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As I mentioned in an earlier post, employment has been on my mind a lot lately. I’ve been looking semi-seriously for a job for a couple months now, and the grind was getting old – until Thursday, when I got two job offers in the same day. At first, I had a hard time deciding between the two – good problem to have, I know – but, in the end I just went with the one that “felt” better in my gut. The downsides are: 1) I’m going to be working with an off-shore development team, which means I’ll be working until around 7pm most days. Not a huge problem, but it does cut into family time a little bit. 2) I’m sticking with project management, even though I swore I was going to take a break from it. I think it’ll make my transition back into the working world a little easier, though, because I’ll be doing something familiar. 3) It’s a longer commute than the other job would have been, but since I won’t start until 10am, and it’s a reverse commute, anyway, it probably won’t be a big issue. 20 – 30 minutes. Manageable. 4) I won’t be able to sit around all day and read, write, think about writing, stalk other blogs, etc. That’s the thing I’m going to miss most. But, that doesn’t come with a paycheck, so back to work I go. Who knows, maybe I’ll get some interesting material to write about, as I’ll have a whole new cast of characters to work with. I start on the 19th, so I have two weeks of freedom left. I’m going to try to make the most of them!

First Lines

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One of the exercises in Writing Life Stories, by Bill Roorbach, is to write down the first lines of a ton of books so you can analyze them, and look at why they work. Below are some first lines from some of my books that are within arm’s reach of my desk.

Gut Symmetries, by Jeanette Winterson.
First there is the forest and inside the forest the clearing and inside the clearing the cabin and inside the cabin the mother and inside the mother the child and inside the child the mountain.

This sentence reads to me like classic Winterson.  The lack of punctuation and repetitious phrasing creates a rushing, falling forward, feeling of things growing smaller and smaller until you reach the smallest thing and inside it is something larger than everything that led up to it.  The sense of spiraling motion and paradox startled and hooked me.  I have yet to read this book, but after doing this exercise, it will jump high up on my list.

Typical American, by Gish Jen.
It’s an American story: Before he was a thinker, or a doer, or an engineer, much less an imagineer like his self-made-millionaire friend Grover Ding, Ralph Chang was just a small boy in China, struggling to grow up his father’s son.

While this sentence contains little drama, it tells me the story has the global theme of son-trying-to-live-up-to-dad’s-expectations.  It also sets the stage for the journey of Ralph Chang, and introduces a character that seems quirky simply based on his name – Grover Ding.  Hard to take seriously anyone with the surname of Ding.

The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini.
I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975.

This simple first line instantly frames the story as a remembrance, possibly a dark remembrance based on the description of the weather.  It also makes clear the narrator will experience something very significant at the age of twelve, and as a reader, I want to know what that is.

Still Alice, by Lisa Genova.
Alice sat at her desk in their bedroom distracted by the sounds of John racing through each of the rooms on the first floor.

This sentence simply sets a scene, and although I did continue to read this book and enjoyed it in the end, this first line had no big impact on me at all.  I can visualize the scene, so it is effective in achieving that and introducing two main characters, but it doesn’t scream, “Keep on reading!”

The Passion, by Jeanette Winterson.
It was Napoleon who had such a passion for chicken that he kept his chefs working around the clock.

This sentence sets the historical period of the book, while introducing a quirk the reader doesn’t expect to be associated with a figure like Napoleon.  The image of Napoleon having people working around the clock to serve him fits, but the reference to chicken passion adds a unique twist and generates curiosity for the reader – at least when that reader is me.

I wrote down (or typed, to be more accurate) many more first lines than these today, but in the interest of NOT writing an overwhelming amount of information on this subject, I started with five.  I’ll post more another time.  What are some of your favorite first lines?  Or, if you don’t have any off the top of your head, open up a couple books and jot them down – what do they do for you?

Fragments of memory

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With my latest obsession of reading books by writers about how to write memoir, I’ve stumbled upon one that’s a little different than most of what I’ve been reading.  Writing Life Stories, HOW TO MAKE memories into MEMOIRS, ideas into ESSAYS, and life into LITERATURE, by Bill Roorbach with Kristen Keckler, PhD offers much of the same advice as other books, but comes with a different style of writing prompts and “exercises.”  When I finish the stack of books I’m reading, I’ll make a post comparing them all, but for now, I’ll comment only on the first major exercise presented in Writing Life Stories, which I now intend to repeat many times.

Excercise 1: Mapmaking

Please make a map of the earliest neighborhood you can remember living in.  Include as much detail as you can.  Who lived where?  What were the secret places?  Where were your friends?  Where did the weird people live?  Where were the friends of your brothers and sisters?  Where were the off-limit places?  Where did good things happen?  Where did you get in trouble?

I’m not a very visual person, so I wasn’t sure what this exercise would do for me, but I was shocked at some of the random things that came back to me as I sketched the earliest neighborhood I remembered.  First, I can hardly say I remembered the neighborhood.  I was only 5, and my brain doesn’t seem to have been able to recognize space outside the main intersection our house sat on.  We didn’t live there for long, so most of my memories were fragments, single moments in time.  Exercise 2 is to tell a story from your map.  I’m going to dive in right here, so this may not come out sounding like a story, since my mind only retained bits and pieces, a little out of context, not connected by much other than the setting.

The house we rented was across the street from a tavern.  The door opened on the kitchen, where I see my grandmother making hot cereal for us for breakfast.  When she asked what she should bring us to eat that morning, we’d said “Cocoa Puffs!,” thinking we’d be able to sneak one past Mom and fill our little bodies with sugar to kick off our day.  She meant to indulge us, but somehow mistakenly settled on chocolate Cream of Wheat.  It could’ve been worse.  It could’ve been plain Cream of Wheat.

The street in front of our house is the street I learned to ride my bike on.  I remember the training wheels, riding barefoot, relatives hollering encouragement as I took on this classic childhood challenge.

Running around barefoot in the grass between our house and the neighbors, I stepped on a honey bee who immediately took umbrage and stung the bottom of my small foot.  I screamed my head off, paralyzed, with one foot in the air, until someone I didn’t know scooped me up and ran me to my back door to hand me off to whoever was home.

There was a kid that lived around a corner and down another street that couldn’t say the word “towel” correctly.  She insisted it was “tolow,” and I never was able to convince her she was wrong.

Behind the bar across the street was a baseball diamond and a small playground.  I see two kids on the teeter totter – one bigger than the other.  When the older kid descended hard, the smaller kid flew over his head, right off the teeter totter, like something out of Tom & Jerry.

At a birthday party when I turned five, a little girl put our kitten in a dresser drawer because he was so little she was afraid he’d get lost.  It took us a day to find him.

One day after school, I came home and gave my mother her wisdom teeth in the little plastic box the dentist provided.  She looked at me with utter confusion.  “What are you doing with these?,” she asked.  “I took them to school for show and tell.”

When the babysitter told us in the afternoon we had to go take a nap, we dutifully went upstairs to bed.  We laid around for a while, bored, not able to fall asleep, but we weren’t allowed to get up again until we’d napped.  When I heard her coming up the stairs to check on us, I hung over the edge of the top bunk and whispered down to my sister, “Hurry.  Close your eyes.  Pretend you’re asleep.”  She didn’t get it.  Five minutes after we were checked on, I crawled out of bed and headed back downstairs.  My sister was stuck in our room until she actually fell asleep, sometimes for a whole afternoon.

We had a small playroom at the top of the stairs, mom’s bedroom on one side, ours on the other.  I see the ragged-edged holes punched through black construction paper for the Lite Brite.  I feel the wobbly nausea from a long turn on the Sit-n-Spin.  I remember fumbling with the nylon bands on the Loop N Loom so we could make garishly colored hot pads for every adult we knew.

My sister never flushed the toilet after she went to the bathroom.  One day, my uncle, who lived with us, heard her flush, and thought it odd.  She’d grabbed a handful of candy from the kitchen and was hiding in the bathroom eating it, flushing one wrapper at a time.