MY FIRST LINE
So. I’m writing a novel.
Not the same one. Another one. Whenever someone asks if I’m writing, I usually say, “Oh, I’m always writing something.” It’s true. There is a constant rotation of plays and novels and blog entries; not even a rotation. More like a mas jumble of projects out of which one will tumble, I’ll work on it until the Giant Ball of Work rolls back by and scoops that project up into it and deposits another at my feet.
Because I like you, (Damn it all. I love you, man!…and lady…and unicorn.), I felt like giving you the first line of what is still very much a work in progress. Here it is:
It wasn’t so much that the cheese dip had sausage in it that offended him.
Nice, huh! Huh? No more lines for you. No context. Not even a title of the book. That’s all you get. Reactions? Okay, go!
Is that fair? Can you really get a sense of what I might be writing from this? If so, tell me, because I have no clue.
What’s your favorite line of a book? “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”? “To be or not to be?”, which actually isn’t from a book, but rather a play, but it’s still pretty cool.
How important is the first line anyway? Can you judge a book by it? You can’t judge a book by its cover (unless you’re my kids), but what about those first few words? Why just the first line? What about the first paragraph? Or page? Or chapter? Why so arbitrary, readers?
What is the first thing that makes you want to read a book?