Another (Techno) Thrilling First Line

I'm onto a Clancy (sanctioned) techno-thriller. This time Threat Vector. It's a typical and expected beginning to a typical and expected Clancy novel.

The five Americans had been lying low in the decrepit hotel room for hours, waiting for nightfall. 

Sheets of warm rain rapped on the window, generating the majority of the sound in the dim room, as there was little talk among the men. This room had served as the base of operations for the team, though four of the five had stayed at other hotels throughout the city during their weeklong stay. Now that preparations were complete, those four had checked out of their quarters and consolidated their gear and themselves here with the fifth man in their group. 

Though they all were still as stones now, they had been a blur of activity over the past week. They had surveilled targets; developed op plans; established covers; memorized their primary, secondary, and tertiary exfiltration routes; and coordinated the logistics of the mission to come. 

But preparations were now complete, and there was nothing left to do but sit and wait for darkness.

Clancy, Tom; Greaney, Mark - Threat Vector

What I can never be sure of is, which first line to take? The prologue first line:

These were grim days for former operatives of the Jamahiriya Security Organization, the dreaded national intelligence service of Libya under Moammar Gaddafi. Those members of the JSO who had managed to survive the revolution in their home nation were now scattered and in hiding, fearing the day when their cruel and brutal past would catch up with them in a cruel and brutal way.

Or the first line from chapter 1. I chose chapter 1 if only cause the prologue one was so damn boring. I guess Greaney and Clancy split the difference. One on the "good first lines" list (here) and the other on the "bad first lines" list (here).

Joe's First Line is Great

I love cataloging first lines (see here and here) and I'm really looking forward to this next book, have been for some time now (see here and here), so I'm glad that The Forever War starts with such an intriguing first line:

‘Tonight we’re going to show you eight silent ways to kill a man.’ The guy who said that was a sergeant who didn’t look five years older than me. So if he’d ever killed a man in combat, silently or otherwise, he’d done it as an infant. 

I already knew eighty ways to kill people, but most of them were pretty noisy. I sat up straight in my chair and assumed a look of polite attention and fell asleep with my eyes open. So did most everybody else. We’d learned that they never scheduled anything important for these after-chop classes.

Haldeman, Joe - The Forever War

This reminds me of a shirt I almost bought. It said "I may look calm, but in my head I've killed you three times" (see here). When I told my wife about it she yelled that it was perfect for me. Whether due to my time in the military or thanks to my liking to write murder mysteries, I'm always thinking about how to kill people.

I'm glad to see that the character in my next book seems to think the same way.

Guest Post: Aimee Conner

My wonderful friend and accomplished author Aimee Conner has been mentioned on this blog several times (see here), wrote a fantastic psychological thriller, Scrapbook, that you can purchase here. Today's she has provided a post on the live of a writer. 

The first vivid memory I have of being a writer is of me, age 12, burying my first novel at the foot of an old Juniper tree that stood on the northwest corner of the 160 acres I grew up on. It was a defining moment because I knew then that nothing could stop me from being who I was born to be: not my abusive parents, my inherent loneliness or the fact I was growing up secluded on the wastelands of Central Oregon. Writing was my escape and salvation, my little secret that I guarded closely. There was the occasional poem I would share with the family to appease their curiosity. The novel, a slew of dark poems and my journals are lost forever. Under constant scrutiny and monitoring at the hands of my parents, I found ways to express myself on paper then destroy it before it could be discovered. I would burn some of my writings in the wood stove but my novel was too thick to dispose of quickly. That’s why I buried it during a nature walk, one of the few activities I was permitted to do alone.

Later on in life as I started defining myself as a writer, my identity went through the growing pains of bad and good advice, some of which came from best-selling authors. I threw myself into the machine, never shying from lengthy discussions with agents and publishers. I sustained the social discouragement of comments from ignorant people. A date’s quip during dinner tops the list of my favorites, “So what are you going to do after being a writer?”

Going through the writer’s fire I’ve learned one truth that keeps me focused and confident. In this short piece I have shared with you intimate details of where I’ve come from, who I am and a taste of my personality. It takes a certain amount of vulnerability to put it all out there but it’s worth it. Fiction or non-fiction, every writer has an opportunity to share their experiences and perspective and that is what connects you to your reader.That is the magic of writing for me. That is my truth, my rule, my strength in this craft. Now a published novelist and travel columnist, I’ve had the great honor of speaking with people from all over the world who have been impacted on a very personal level by my work. It is the greatest high in life for me to know someone read the words I wrote and felt something because of it.

A saying I once heard goes something like “There is no such thing as a former writer.” Fellow wordsmiths, we were born this way and we are here to stay.

Aimee draws upon her own experiences as well as stories she's heard along the way. She uses organic themes and relatable, flawed characters. She strives to provide a voice for victims of abuse and increase awareness. Her debut thriller 'Scrapbook' follows the life of Hannah Dormer, a young woman living in quiet desperation until a family of serial killers opens her eyes to her Shadow Self.

To discover Ms. Conner's lighter side as a travel columnist, visit www.lynfuchs.blogspot.com to catch her latest ramblings from Walla Walla Washington. 

10% of 'Scrapbook' digital sales are donated toward helping victims of abuse and violence. 

http://www.goodreads.com/author/aimeeconner

http://www.stage32.com/profile/32569/aimee-conner

http://twitter.com/aimeeconner84

More First Lines . . . This Time as "Scene-Setters"

As a follow up to yesterday's post on my own first lines (see here) as well as last week's first line on Frederick Forsyth's first line of The Veteran, I offer two more. I inadvertently stumbled into a nest of short stories. Didn't mean to. I was looking forward to a nice, long, British, spy-thriller. I got a series of shorties.

Still, the first lines of each help illustrate exactly what I was writing about yesterday. In both of the below cases the first lines act as scene-setters. I like reading the way Forsyth is able to produce a fantastic word picture of exactly where the reader is finding themselves in the story.

THE ART OF THE MATTER 

The rain came down. It fell in a slowly moving wall upon Hyde Park and, borne by a light westerly wind, drifted in grey curtains of falling water across Park Lane and through the narrow park of plane trees that divides the northbound and southbound lanes. A wet and gloomy man stood under the leafless trees and watched. 

The entrance to the Grosvenor House Hotel ballroom was brightly lit by several arc lights and the endless glare of camera flashes. Inside was warm, snug and dry. Under the awning before the door was an area of only damp pavement and here the uniformed commissionaires stood, gleaming umbrellas at the ready, as the limousines swept up, one by one. 

As each rain-lashed car drew up by the awning one of the men would run forward to shield the descending star or film celebrity for the two-yard dash, head down, from car to awning. There they could straighten up, plaster on the practised smile and face the cameras. 

The paparazzi were either side of the awning, skin-wet, shielding their precious equipment as best they could. Their cries came across the road to the man under the trees.

Forsyth, Frederick - The Veteran

THE MIRACLE

The sun was a hammer in the sky. It beat down on the clustered roofs of the walled Tuscan city and the medieval tiles, some pink but mostly long baked to umber or ashen grey, shimmered in the heat. 

Shadows dark as night were cast along upper windows by the overhanging gutters; but where the sun could touch, the rendered walls and ancient bricks gleamed pale, and wooden sills cracked and peeled. In the deep and narrow cobbled alleys of the oldest quarter there were restful pools of further shade and here the occasional sleepy cat sought refuge. But of local humans there was no sign, for this was the day of the Palio. 

Down one such alley, lost in a maze of tiny cobbled ways, hardly wider than his own shoulders, the American tourist hurried, red as beef. Sweat trickled down to soak his short-sleeved cotton shirt, the tropical-weight jacket felt like a blanket dangling from his shoulder. Behind him his wife tottered painfully on unsuitable platform sandals. 

They had tried to book far too late for a hotel inside the city, in this of all seasons, and had finally settled for a room in Casole d’Elsa. The rented car had overheated on the road, they had eventually found a parking slot beyond the city walls and now scurried from the Porta Ovile towards their goal. 

They were soon lost in the labyrinth of alleys dating back five hundred years, stumbling on the hot cobbles, feet on fire. From time to time the Kansas cattleman cocked an ear towards the roar of the crowd and tried to head in that direction. His well-upholstered wife sought only to catch up and fan herself with a guidebook at the same time.

Forsyth, Frederick - The Veteran

I find it interesting that the first one is about rain coming down near Hyde Park, then the very next one is sun in Italy. The rain soaked start is for a revenge fantasy regarding a painting con. The sun is the first line for a story about a miracle. Forsyth is a good enough author where I think both of those are intentional.

First Lines? Just How Important are They?

I love my first line series (see here). I started it years ago because I read a book about the importance of first lines (see here) and since then there have been some doozies in the list. In preparing for this post I went back and read a bunch and there are some good ones out there in the past of this blog, and there are some real disappointments too.

Plus as a new writer, you hear so much about the need to hook the reader, to get them involved immediately in the story. But you know what I've found. It's not so much the first line, it's that first scene. It's like I said in my last post on the subject (see here), it's not so much that first line, it's the first scene, the writer's library and stock pile of good will with the reader, and the overall writing in general. A well written book will overcome a shotty first line. A back ground of great books will provide a lot of credibility to overcome a boring first line.

In terms of my own first lines, I have mixed reviews (see here). I'm happier with On the Edge in general than I am with Toe the Line, but I think the first line for On the Edge, and the opening scene is weaker than Toe the Line.

There is a specific fear, a state of panic really, that takes root within most people, parents particularly when they first discover that they've lost track of their child. It's the moment when a father loses sight of his son in a crowded food court, the second or two when a mother realizes that the little hand that belongs to her daughter that was holding her hand is no longer there. A flush of extreme anxiety with undertones of foreboding follow that first moment and are quickly replaced by hope. Hope that as the crowd parts he will see his son, or she will feel the little fingers reach up and wrap around her hand again. When that doesn't happen the panic becomes terror. My terror began half way into my Monday, six mile run. It was Georgia I missed first. 

The rest of the chapter is dedicated to the protagonist finding what happened to Georgia.

In Toe the Line, the first line is reminiscent of Max Shulman and his "Bang bang bang bang" opening (see here). 

"Go to hell, Wheeler." As last words go they were hardly what one would call poignant.

Sadly, I don't think that either first line would land on any lists of "Great First Lines" nor even on "Good First Lines." More sadly is the fact that I don't have a library of goodwill built up with my "fan club." All I have, I hope, is decent writing in one of the books and passable writing in the other. To say it precisely I have the following reviews. For On the Edge I received a review that stated:

Dick Hannah has created one fantastic novel. Simply put- I love it. There were a lot of plates spinning & he didn't drop any. What I'd thought would be a simple mystery novel became multiple novels in one: family drama, thriller, a little romance, inspirational- you name it! Fingers are crossed for a sequel. Five stars straight through- brilliant!

For Toe the Line the most scathing review stated:

When I read the synopsis this sounded like my kind of book, intriguing plot with a mystery to be solved. While the book did have these characteristics, at times I felt like I was reading an assignment in a high school English class. The scenery that Mr. Hannah created with his use of imagery was amazing. I felt as though I was in the Pacific Northwest as I read the book. His character development was scattered, at best. I agree with the other reviewer, in that Wynn drove me crazy! His character had much potential but his obsession with triathlons became quite old quickly. He lacked depth and was flat, whereas his ex-fiancee's character was fiery. The extreme personalities frustrated me several times throughout the story. Also, a few of the secondary characters could have been developed more. It would have provided the insight needed for the conclusion. I felt the premise of the story was good; I wish Mr. Hannah had expanded his storyline. He only touched the surface of what could have been a 5 star novel.

Yikes, right? So again, no credibility provided through Toe the Line. But regarding that first line stuff, see this review:

When I read the first page I was hooked. Usually, if I can't get into a book by the third page then I know I'm not going to get into it at all. 'Toe The Line' was an exceptional read right through to the end. At one point I THOUGHT I had well and truly nabbed the murderer, but then it twisted so I was caught off guard - which stunned me because I can usually catch the killer before the story ends (hence I was a bit cross with myself but pleased for Mr Hannah for making me as the reader think differently).

So, like I said, a great first line isn't the end all beat all by any means. It can help, but mostly it's great writing that's going to get the writer over the hump of readers acceptance and love for the work. What have I learned? First, although the first line and first scene are important for my next work, Vapor Trail, it's not what's going to win the battle. Taking that "writing is a road march" idea from several weeks ago (see here) it reminds me of a thirty-miler that we took in Fort Ord, California. We had a briefing the night before and one of of the more senior squad leaders talked about the importance of keeping your feet dry and clean,  . . . fresh socks, good boots, . . . that sort of thing. Then the next morning, bright and early we start off. We are winding our way through some foot hill trails and there's a ford through a stream that stops us cold just a mile or two into the five hour ordeal. Imagine that. A platoon of Spec Ops, Ranger, Paratrooper Bad-Asses stopped in the midst of our thirty-mile mission by a team leader who took the foot hygiene class so seriously that he stopped at a three inch deep puddle from a small stream. 

Eventually the platoon sergeant came along, yelled at us all for being ridiculous and strode through that puddle making as many big splashes as he could just to show how much he cared about his own foot care and we were back off. Still, bad start but great content. I'd much rather have that the alternative of a great start with a poor finish. So, for Vapor Trail I'm going to focus on that first line, but more of my focus will be on the work as a whole than just on that first few lines. I have a bit of credibility built up with the readers, no need to undercut that now.

As long as we are talking about my reviews, my favorite has to be this one about On the Edge. 

At first I hated Joe and didn't know if I was going to make it through the book. He seemed to be such a douche. But as the story began to unfold, I found that some of the douchery was really his own anxieties taking hold. From that point forward I wanted to learn more about this guy and what makes him tick. The novel is full of twists and turns that keep the reader engaged. The story line is realistic and detailed. I am sure the author's military background made all the difference for me in the flashback scenes. Many times I will gloss over these types of things (military stories just aren't my cup o' tea) but Hannah truly painted a picture with his words that keep me intrigued.

There is a little bit of everything in this book. Suspense. Mystery. A little taste of romance. And pretty deep character development packed into a fairly short novel. It was a really good read and I recommend it to anyone who enjoys "who done it?" mystery/thriller books.

As I said before (here) . . . who can't help but love a positive review that includes the term "douchery."

Miss My Writing Bud

So it has come to my attention that I need to discuss a personal issue here. Generally I don't like to do that. I like to keep this forum for thoughts on writing and reading and try to keep the personal at arms length. But as savvy, long-time reader know, I do mix the fam in every now and then (see here and here). Still, I generally try and find a way to bring it back to writing and I'm sure I'll find a way to do that here as well. All that being said, Killian, my best friend for almost fifteen years, who has made his way into this blog a couple of times (see here), passed away on Wednesday morning.

There would be several novels that could be written from this experience. I've managed helping to put a dog to sleep, but this time. . . Killian's passing was unlike any of the others I've been a part of. Good and bad. From the unexpected and surprising warm hug on my doorstep from the vet as he left, one that I didn't know I needed but obviously he realized I did, to the complex and sometimes difficult dealings with close friends and family. There has to be a novel in there somewhere about how it's good to know who you got in your fox-hole.

Or there is the "Marley and Me" style novel that recounts the life of a great fellow like Killian. One that brings up his wonky, over-the-line disgusting bad deeds, to his warm-hearted and gentle great ones. Mostly I'm sure in a James Herriot kind of way I would bring up how he would thump heavily at my side as I typed away on my novels, always seeming to search me out like a latent, somewhat running-behind-schedule shadow. Or perhaps how he grunted and groaned with satisfaction as a writer's toe reached down to give his ear a scratch every now and then.

But I think the most startling novel would be the one regarding the reaction to his death of those who were closest to him. How the almost nine year old in the house, who I had to tell to set a good example, couldn't contain himself from rushing inside to see if Killian was still home, and let just a few tears slip when he finally realized the bad news, but who bucked himself up and matured what seemed like decades right before my eyse. How the five year old wailed with grief for over an hour, tragically and completely beside himself in his sadness when he heard the news that the companion who had been by his side his entire life would no longer be around for long walks or to help him go to sleep at night. And how the four year old, still not quite sure what was going on, retreated into his shell to wait out the difficulty he saw his big-brother hero going through.

Somewhere amid all of this is a novel just waiting to be set free. But for me, I'll just miss having the fellow around when I'm writing.

First Came Miss Cooper

Perhaps I have fallen victim to a scam, but I went and bought an application that is suppossed to help me with key word and SEO analysis for my book.

A few weeks back Elizabeth Cooper wrote about getting the most out of SEO (see here). I realized that I do very little SEO for my little blog here. I count on word of mouth, on Google+ and other (even more) passive aspects of advertisement to get my blog out into the main stream of writing and publishing culture.

Then a friend of mine at work wrote to tell me that I "suck at SEO." This was a taunt that I just could not condone. Not from this (very best of all-time) friend.

Taking these two things into account I resolved to make the most of SEO, and that's where Kindle Samurai comes into the picture. Kindle Samurai promises "High Traffic Keywords" and "Keywords that have low Competition" among other things in order to help drive more sales of your books on Amazon and Kindle.

So far I have barely scratched the surface and I'm a tad worried I've been conned. So, in order to make lemonade out of the lemons I intend to give this audience a detailed look into the functionality and the capability and my results from using the application.

If any of you have any history with Kindle Samurai, I would love to hear how things when with you and get your thoughts. If you have no history, and want to know if it can be used to help tweak SEO for your books, . . . STAY TUNED!

The Efficasatiousness of Made Up Words

Other than the First and Last Lines series (see here and here) my favorite little series, and one that is neglected lately, is the Word Smith series (see here).

This series started when I started noticing that my kiddo's were experts at forcing the evolution of the English language. Where would society be without "Movie-ater" instead of theater . . . or "Jumpoline" instead of trampoline. And who could forget "Heli-hopter" for helicopter.

And yes, I understand that this is a pet project for me. So few people find what other folks kiddo's do as cute as the parent finds them. Not only that, but the picture of the Fiction Rule of Thumb that I show below (that I lifted from XKCD.com) proves that there is very little success in using any of these in my writing. But yesterday I commented about my new friend Andy Goldman's post about indoctrinating his kiddos into the Star Wars world (see here), and it made me start thinking about my own kiddos.

Today I have two. First I have one from our little foster kiddo, A. The first time he was with us he couldn't speak. Now, he's a speaking fool! He's constantly saying things. He said something the other day that made me wonder how many pearls of word wizardry were in his little head that whole time he was quiet.

Dick: "You guys want to watch a movie?"

P and C: "YEAH!" (with A echoing his brother's sentiment just moment after)

Dick: "Which one?"

P and C: "Despicable Me Two!"

A: "YEAH! Pickle Me Too!"

The other one came from P who is almost nine. He was explaining to me his state testing and the types of questions he had to answer as a part of the test.

Dick: "So all you had to do was add numbers?"

P: "Yeah, it was simple."

Dick: "Seems too easy for a Math Wizard like you."

P: "Well we did have to multiplicate as well."

Who needs "multiply" and "multiplication" when you can use a word like "Multiplicate!" You heard it here first folks. Soon you'll hear it everywhere.

FLOTD (First Line of the Day)

I was all set to write about the first line of the book I'm reading now and was going to compare it to the first line in my own books, Toe the Line (here) and On the Edge (here) so went through my blog looking for the posts where I dissected my own first lines.

Couldn't find em.

May not have ever done it.

That's a problem. Here I have (what I think is) a wonderful series all about first lines (see here). It has shown me that first lines although important are perhaps not as important as many believe. I think it's proven to me that having a good quality product and reputation is more important than a super-fantastic first line. But without those other two qualities a first line that knocks the reader back a step can be a pretty good substitute.

All that being said, count on a post in the coming days and or weeks on my own first lines. What will be really interesting is reading the first line of my newest novel, Vapor Trail, to see if I've learned anything about first lines from this series.

I love reading Forsyth novels and he's had some doozy first lines (see here). This one . . . not so much.

It was the owner of the small convenience store on the corner who saw it all. At least, he said he did. 

He was inside the shop, but near the front window, rearranging his wares for better display, when he looked up and saw the man across the street. The man was quite unremarkable and the shopkeeper would have looked away but for the limp. He would testify later that there was no-one else on the street. 

The day was hot beneath a skim of grey cloud, the atmosphere close and muggy. The hysterically named Paradise Way was as bleak and shabby as ever, a shopping parade in the heart of one of those graffiti-daubed, exhausted, crime-destroyed housing estates that deface the landscape between Leyton, Edmonton, Dalston and Tottenham.

Forsyth, Frederick - The Veteran

Mostly scene setting. "He was inside the shop" . . . . "The man was quite unremarkable" . . . "The day was hot" . . . not really the type of thing that grabs the reader by the throat and compels them to know more. Saying "the day was hot beneath a skim of grey cloud," is hardly as profound as "The November sky over Manhattan was chain mail, raveling into steely rain." (see here).

This is what I meant by having a good quality product and a worthwhile library as a foundation. Forsyth certainly has the history. So far he's missed the first line and at the moment since the first part of the book reads like a particularly boring episode of Law and Order (the Ben Stone era, not the Jack McCoy era), he's taken two strikes and the next pitch is on the way.

The Power of the Writing Habit

There is a lot of great articles both on this blog (see here), and on other blogs (specifically here and here) that discuss ways to overcome writer's block.

This springs to mind because this blog's primary "field correspondent" Kristi Jones, is off at a writer's retreat and is kicking ass at knocking out her word count (see @authorkristi on Twitter for a play-by-play).

But I wanted to discuss habits.

 I read a book once called The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg (see here and here). It was a great book, and invariably, like most non-fiction books I try to read, I failed to complete it. In the book,  Duhigg tells many many stories about how habit is more important in lifestyle than any other one thing. Not only that but breaking the habit that leads to poor choices is more important than stopping the poor choice cold turkey.

One of the more memorable stories was about an older gentleman who suffered a severe brain injury. He was left without the ability to function normally in life. He always had to have a nurse or care-taker after the injury occurred. He many have even been a university professor prior to the injury (I suppose a re-read is in order). Nevertheless, the old guy would go for walks every afternoon. He couldn't get out of bed by himself, or brush his teeth, or make coffee, or any of the daily ins and outs of regular life. But he would go out the door and walk around the block every day without fail.

It was a habit he had before the injury and it was one that he kept afterward. If he was stopped while on his walk and asked about why he had decided to go on a walk, he wouldn't even be able to tell you. As I recall he didn't even realize that he was on a walk. It was just something that he did cause it was habit. I have a dog that does the same thing. I will start Killian on a walk and he’ll just go on and walk around the block by himself and eventually find himself at our backdoor waiting to be let in. It’s autopilot.

Bully for Kristi for kicking ass at the writer’s retreat. And could this could be sour grapes if only cause I would love the chance to take off for a writer’s retreat (gotta love those “professional” writers), but I think my writing has more to do with habit than anything else.

I get into the habit of writing and that’s what keeps me writing. The more I write the more I think about my novel and the more I want to write. If I wake up on weekends and write, then I keep waking up on weekends to write. If I write at night then I keep writing at night. Whenever something gets in the way of that habit, be in baseball games for the kiddo, or an interesting show at night, then BOOM the chain is broken and the habit is lost. For me it’s that quick. I have to go back out there and re-establish the habit if I want it back.

It’s the quick fall off of the habit that is my Achilles heel. I don’t think I’m an addictive type of person. I smoked for a while as a kid, then I came home from Europe and I stopped. Just stopped. I dipped tobacco in the Army. When I got out of the Army I stopped dipping. I wanted to lose weight so I stopped eating meat and cheese and milk and eggs. I want to lose weight so I stop drinking. Stopping things is just that easy to me. I just stop.

I wish that I had a more addictive personality where I couldn't get away from my writing, even to watch a nine year old pitch for the first time in a baseball game. I have a novel that is two thirds the way done right now just waiting for me to get back into the habit of writing. Can you just imagine how terrific it would be to be like that walk around the block fella or Killian and just BOOM find yourself sitting in front of your computer knocking out your novel and not even realize your doing it. 

Still, I’m jealous of the writer’s retreat . . . that’s a habit I could get used to.