No, not my Chapter One. Sorry if I got your hopes up, there. (Did I? I hope I did, actually.)
No, I mean Chapter Ones (or is it Chapters One, like attorneys general?), in general. What are the needs, what are the requirements of a novel’s Chapter One.
A lot of writers paraphrase Chekhov. In essence, If you hang a loaded gun on the wall in Act I, it must go off by the end of Act III.
A lot of writers (mostly newer writers) want the literary equivalent of a movie’s “establishing shot.” They want everything set up in Chapter One–characters, setting, conflict, subplots–everything.
For me, the best advice I’ve ever heard on how to build my Chapter One is this:
Shoot the sheriff on the first page.
Before I can explain why I think this is the best advice of them all on the topic, let’s explore the other two.
Chekhov’s quote comes in many forms, but my favorite version is this: “Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it’s not going to be fired, it shouldn’t be hanging there.”
Why is this not good advice for Chapter One? First of all, it’s not advice intended for novelists; it’s intended as advice to playwrights. The pacing and segmentation of a play is radically different from that of a novel. A play generally has three acts, sometimes five; novels usually have many more chapters than this. Moreover, Chekhov was advising us to remove from the play anything that is superfluous as an aid in foreshadowing. Again, the techniques used in plays and novels are so dissimilar as to be almost no help. Foreshadowing is important, but it doesn’t have to begin in Chapter One.
The second item I hear from other (usually new) writers about what Chapter One should do. Frankly, I put the popularity of this advice down to a new generation of writers being brought up on formulaic cinema and the 47-minute TV drama instead of on reading actual novels.
The “establishing shot” is a slow opening sequence that sets the viewer in the time and place of the story that’s about to unfold. In the compressed art form of the cinema, this is often a way to start telling the story while the credits roll. It can set not only the scene, but the mood. But this slow, quiet sort of opening isn’t required for a novel. We don’t have credits to run over the first few minutes of our Chapter One. As with Chekhov’s advice, copying this technique from a dissimilar medium is unwise.
I understand the urge to “establish” everything, especially in an historical or genre setting, but it’s an urge that should be resisted. Giving in to this urge leads to exposition, “As you know, Bob” statements, scenes so full of characters that the reader doesn’t know who’s who, and–worst-case scenario–a prologue.
It is not the job of Chapter One to introduce the reader to every character, every bit of backstory, every detail of the setting’s time and place, and everything that led up to the opening scene going back three generations. It just isn’t.
So, what is the job of Chapter One?
Chapter One has one duty: engage the reader, get them invested in the story, and make them want to read more. To do this, the best advice I’ve ever heard is the one above: Shoot the sheriff on the first page.
It’s hyperbole, of course, but it’s sound. Get the conflict going. Nothing is going to capture the reader’s attention than conflict.
A fight. An argument. A crash. An element of surprise or suspense. Tension. Anger. Frustration. Thwarted desire.
Conflict.
Put a dozen guns on the wall and the reader will say, “Hmm.” Spend three pages describing the bucolic scene of a 18th century shepherd in a field overlooking a winding river with his cottage nearby where his wife is scrubbing clothes and, in the distance, the spire of a church and the ringing of the bell to celebrate the wedding of the manor’s eldest daughter, and you’ll lose your reader as fast as I lost you in this sentence. But put a couple on a street speaking in sharp, urgent tones; find an old wooden box while digging in the potato field; have a young man walking down a dark street, looking over his shoulder as he hears footsteps following him; do any of these things and the reader will immediately begin to identify with the characters and want to know what happens next.
Shoot him. Shoot him on the very first page.
k
Kurt — I’m intrigued by your comment about how the three-act story arc pertains to plays but not novels because novels have chapters rather than acts. I’ve read in several sources that novels should follow the three-act structure (across several chapters) because it’s the story arc that is most successful: introduction of problem, escalation of problem, resolution of problem. Could you clarify how you distinguish between Chekhov’s advice for playwrights versus a novelist’s need to develop along the same basic three-act structure? So curious about another way of seeing this! Thanks!
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I wasn’t talking about story arcs. I was saying that we cannot equate chapters in a novel to acts in a play. Chekhov’s advice to put the gun on the mantle in Act One does not translate directly to a novel’s Chapter One because–in general–a chapter is a much smaller part of a novel than an act is of a play. A lot more has to happen in a play’s Act One than has to happen–or indeed, _should_ happen–in a novel’s Chapter One. Unless your novel has three chapters, you need to pace things diffently.
Now, as to story arcs, they’re crucial to a successful novel but, here again, I do not believe they are the same thing as pertains to novels and plays. A play, teleplay, script, is a much more compressed art form than the novel. As evidence of this, just look at any adaptation of a novel to the screen and see what was taken out, glossed over, compressed and composited, or just plain ignored during translation.
A page of script is about one minute of stage/movie time. He many 120-page novels have you read?
Now, with a 120-page novel the simplicity of a three-act story structure might suffice. With a 400-page novel, though, the pacing will be slower. Either way, though, (and as you mention) these three “acts” of a novel will span several chapters a piece. This invalidates applying any “First Act” guidelines to “Chapter One.”
However, I believe that the three-act structure is insufficient for a novel of any complexity. I prefer to look at things in a four- to five-act structure. The basics are still there–introduction, escalation, resolution–but there are peaks and valleys along the course of the rising action. There may also be the intertwining of subplots during the rising action.
Chekhov was talking about two things: simplicity and foreshadowing. Foreshadowing is important to a novel, just as it is to a play, but simplicity is not as necessary. A novel has time to get up, stretch its legs, and take in a view before settling back down to the action. To take Chekhov’s advice too literally is to cram too much into your Chapter One.
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Ah! Yes, this makes complete sense. We’re in agreement about the structural nuances of novels versus plays, movies, etc. Thanks for clarifying!
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Glad to have the opportunity. Sometimes the clarity in my head doesn’t make it to the page…too often, in fact. Thanks for the comments!
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“Worst case scenario – a prologue”?? Hmmmmmm. As someone who’s started with a prologue I may have to take issue there. A prologue can act as the sheriff and half the townsfolk being shot on the first page by an unknown assailant. If Chapter One then starts on an entirely different tack, you have intrigue. But they are, admittedly, a Marmite thing – you love them or hate them.
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Ah, you rose to the bait!
To be fair, I have a prologue to start my Fallen Cloud Saga, and an epilogue to close out the series. So, full disclosure on that one…
Prologues are overused by new authors, though. They’re usually put in as an expositional tool, as new authors feel we need to know all the backstory right up front (which we don’t). But whenever I beta-read another writer’s prologue, I always ask, “Is this information really needed in the front?” By _hinting_ at the conflict, by revealing clues to what has started the conflict, you can actually add more tension and suspense for the reader, which can translate into more interest and more page-turning.
There are plenty of examples where a prologue is good, proper, and necessary, but they should always be considered and re-considered. A good/proper/necessary prologue is really a Chapter One by another name, no?
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[…] by a discussion on how to write a “Chapter One,” and the advice to “shoot them on the first page.” No one specified that the […]
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“what are the requirements of a novel’s Chapter One.”
Okay that’s funny, as I was sitting here reading, the first thing that popped into my head was “the first chapter should make sure they read the rest!” Which is what you go on to say anyway, so yay me?
I don’t necessarily go with shoot him on the first page, exactly, but I definitely agree that there should be something to immediately engage the reader in the story. Which is funny since JRR Tolkien took about 5 chapters to get anywhere in Lord of the Rings, but I still love the book. But most authors can’t get away with 5 chapters of introduction before getting into the meat of a story. I know I sure can’t!
I think of it kind of like the evening news. They have that 10 second blurb about “Find out who did what and why, news at 11” which is to say, the most interesting story they have that night is the one they just told you about, but then you have to watch all 40 minutes of news broadcast and 20 minutes of commercials to get to that one story that you thought was interesting enough to be tricked into watching the whole boring news to get the answer to who did what and why.
In book-length stories, I like to throw something at the reader immediately that makes them need to read whatever else is next just to find out the answer to that first taste – and with any luck the ‘whatever is next’ isn’t nearly as boring as the first 39 minutes of the news – and it’s something that they can’t bear to put that book down without finding out about. Which by then, if I’ve done my job right, they’re hooked on the whole story!
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Yay, you!
Someone’s always going to break the rule, which is why I always say there aren’t any rules, just guidelines. And while I have yet to actually shoot someone on the first page, I do like to introduce conflict as early as possible, preferably with the first sentence and at a minimum in the first three paragraphs.
The first three paragraphs are going to be the first page of a MS, and will be the first page of a finished novel. I want to catch both agent/editor and reader with those that first page, and I want them both to turn the page.
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… I suddenly want to shoot someone on the first page, just to do it.
New short story time? I think so!
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The gunshot echoed, loud in the small, spare room. Buster blinked in shock from the noise. Smoke coiled upward from the barrel of the 9mm. Sheriff Charlie lay on the floor near the open window.
Charlie opened his eyes and sat up. He said something, but Buster couldn’t hear for the ringing in his ears.
“What?” he said, hand cupping his ear.
“See?” Charlie said, louder this time. “The shot had to come from somewhere outside.”
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Excellent! I love immediate misdirection ❤
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Ooh. Good title.
_Immediate Misdirection_
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😀
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