Venture even a little way into the world of querying and you figure out the first five pages of your manuscript had better be in tip-top shape. I’ve seen several agents comment that even if they’re unimpressed with the query itself, they’ll still give the sample pages a chance-after all, when it comes down to it, it’s about the manuscript, not the query letter. So your first five had better be polished and perfect, not only well-written but attention-grabbing. Those first pages are the “hook” that will draw your readers in.
A lot of writers seem to interpret “hook” as an in medias res opening-a heart-pounding action sequence in the first few paragraphs, maybe, or a death or two, or a high-stakes conflict. Some sort of tension the reader will be so desperate to see resolved that they won’t want to put the book back on the bookstore shelf.
And it makes me wonder if that’s all an opening should be. Over and over again I’ve heard it stressed that “capturing” a reader’s attention in the first five pages is vitally important. But that really has kind of a negative connotation when you think about it. All of those sorts of phrases, in fact, have kind of an unpleasant sound- “capture,” “hook”; something that “forces” a reader to keep reading. It all sounds cold and calculated and unpleasant, like it’s some scientific formula authors can plug in to ensure readers will keep turning pages.
It’s an indicator of our generally fast-paced, impatient, distracted culture, maybe-of our laziness, to be blunt. We want our entertainment delivered instantaneously, in palatable little bites we can consume without giving pause-and as long as authors give us that, we’re guaranteed to keep consuming.
I like a fast-paced thriller with an explosive opening as much as anybody. They’re marketable, that’s for sure. But what about slower openings-prose that makes you feel and think, rather than just giving you a rush? I’m afraid openings that rely on gimmicks to draw readers in are ultimately hampering their own impact. The gimmick is useless after the first read, and if there’s no real substance beneath it, there’s no reason for a reader ever to return to those pages.
There’s certainly a distinction to be made between a gimmicky opening and an opening that’s gripping and fast-paced yet well-crafted-I don’t mean to imply I think all fast-paced openings are cheap or disposable. After all, The Maltese Falcon starts pretty much with a bang, and it made the list of the 100 Greatest American Novels, 1891-1991. But I wonder sometimes what would happen if, say, Hemingway had shopped around the first five pages of A Farewell to Arms in the world of modern publishing. Because nothing much happens in the first five pages of A Farewell to Arms. In fact, nothing much happens in the first five chapters of A Farewell to Arms. Some description of the Italian countryside, the traffic on the dusty road. The main character goes with a friend to meet some English nurses. He drinks. He smokes. He reflects. He sits with his friends in the bar night after night and has conversations that do nothing to “advance the plot.” There’s no hook, no twist, no edge-of-your-seat nail-biting incitement to keep you turning the pages.
Your involvement with the story comes only gradually and with perseverance on your part. There’s not a single snappy action scene through the entirety of the book. But by the end you feel a deep connection with that Italian countryside, with the rain in Milan and the snow in Montreux, with the fatally flawed characters, with the utter bleakness of the war. You get the feeling there are layers and layers to be unpeeled-that you could read the book again and again and each time discover a whole new layer you didn’t even know existed the first time around.
We don’t like to think reading should take effort. Reading is entertainment, right? Entertainment shouldn’t require effort! But for something to have truly lasting impact on us-our reading material the same as anything else-it takes effort and involvement and patience. And sometimes it takes more than five pages.