Shall I Practice What I Preach?

I'm always talking to my students about opening their stories in a way that intrigues the reader. The opening needs to reflect something about the story's main conflict and issues--which means you'll probably need to revise your opening after you've written the story and discovered what it's about. One good way to do this is to drop us right into meaningful action.

And, ahem, that's the exact advice I received from an editor of a publisher who is interested in my novel Complementary Colors. The opening was too slow, too focused on setting things up--things that didn't necessarily resonate with the heart of the novel.

I revised the opening, thinking I'd fixed it. A participant in my manuscript group (there are four of us who exchange full manuscript edits, a kind of bartering system) said it still didn't start at the heart of the story. I looked at it again and realized there was still too much "throat clearing." And the first line was boring! It had nothing to do with the true struggles the narrator faces.

So I rewrote it again. The first sentence now has more depth. It carries multiple meanings. And there, on the first page, is a key action that plunges the reader right into the story's "trouble." The "trouble" that leads to transformation.

I've now sent it back to the editor. I'll let you know if she thinks I was successful.

Leaving the Baby

Tonight I'm going to dinner with Ishmael Beah.

Okay, there will be about 15 other people there, too--but I might actually get to watch him eat from across the table.

Afterward, he's speaking on campus. (For more information, click here.)

I'll update my blog tomorrow to let you know what the event was like. And meeting him.

*

Just found out that my story, "Leaving the Baby," will appear in Queer Collection: Poetry and Prose 2008.

Here's the first paragraph of the story, a teaser (I hope):

The first time Michelle left the baby alone was unintentional. And brief. She’d forgotten about him for just a few minutes when she went outside to get the mail. Actually, not quite forgotten—but she experienced a moment when her body was her own. Her brain felt as squishy as Sammy’s soft spot, and the cold sun was blinding.