How to Begin

I have a problem with beginnings—essays, stories, and everything else that deals with words. I even have a problem with this blog because I ask “How do I start?”

Do I do as some books say? “Start with a hook. Use one line or a conversation to draw readers in.” Or “Set up the story first. The surrounding environment can greatly influence later actions and foreshadow atmosphere and events.”

Perhaps I should listen to school teachers instead: “Start with an anecdote. You can use that creative license of yours to lead into the essay.” Or “Use a question or a definition.” Or “Begin generally then specify into the thesis. If all else fails, start with your thesis and go on.” (Of course, most of their advice, especially in the last couple of years, dealt with timed essays.)

I could always follow the most common tip: Write what you know.

Although good ones, these suggestions doesn’t help me. They mostly concern, as that last counsel pointed out, the “what.” What I’m looking for is how to start.

“Put a pen to paper, d-u-h.”

Right… Maybe “how” is not the right word. “When” seems to be.

There are so many stories and ideas in my head, good ones if I may boldly add. But they are like the dialogue you hear on the street, the places you walk through, and the people you brush past; they all hold this great story within. However, this greatness doesn’t mean writing from the moment of conception to the last breath or even beginning with what you see or hear in that second because, well, it just isn’t logical or sensible or, shock shock, enjoyable.

Humbert didn’t start his testimony with a description of confined space. I heard Howard Roark’s laugh before anything else. The Boy-Who-Lived began with The-Parents-Who-Died; and I can only wish to see the light and dust form the elusive Stargirl.

So many wonderful stories began with a strand plucked from a tightly-woven world. How do they see it? Where in this ball of string can I also make the first cut? It would be nice to know.

I don’t want to begin with a joke I heard on the street if it doesn’t forward the plot. I don’t want to write about a baby’s first steps if it doesn’t shed light on a person’s character, and I don’t want to write about Bob’s every breath because, as great as he is and the life he lived, it will bore me (and everyone else).

But how can I start a life if life itself is wondering when and how it started? How can I start a story if Earth’s shape illustrates the lack of a clear beginning?

I found one answer in Lajos Egri’s The Art of Dramatic Writing: Calling the beginning the “Point of Attack,” he writes, “[The play] should start when something is at stake (necessity), when a conflict begins its ascent to a crisis, when a decision, which will precipitate conflict, has been made, or when the character experiences a turning point in life.”

Good answers—I can already think of previous stories that began like that. And my stories? This blog? Well, I can think of a few beginnings; I also think I should learn more about the characters and plots in my head to pinpoint the right time. When I’m done with that, I’ll face my next problem: the first words themselves.

Until then, I thought I’d honor a few of my earlier teachers by beginning this blog (or ending this entry) with a question:

In a lifetime of words, how do you know which is the right opening? How do you choose? When does the beginning start?

(Currently listening to: Sigur Ros)