The Ultimate Pick-Up Line: Why Your First Sentence Matters

August 11, 2020 | By Katherine Fawcett | Reply More

by Katherine Fawcett

Even since that one guy got tired of hunting and gathering, sat down on a rock near the fire, waved for others to gather around, cleared his throat and said the words “Once upon a time in a land far, far away…” we’ve been suckers for a good tale. And we’re either drawn in by that first line and compelled to pay attention, or we mumble “here we go again,” and plod off.

It’s all in the opening. The kicker. The hook. The words, the rhythm, the tone. It hints at what’s to come, and beckons you forth. The first sentence (or few sentences) of a story or novel is the ultimate pick-up line. It buys you a drink, in hopes you’ll take that first sip.

I sometimes binge on opening lines. Some word-strings are so powerful it’s impossible not to continue reading. Some tease with poetic beauty. Some pose a question that demand to be answered. And some are so brilliantly crafted they almost tell a story in themselves.

You’re probably familiar with these most memorable first sentences in literature:

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. —Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… —A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens
It was a dark and stormy night… —Paul Clifford, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. (The sentence was used again by Madeleine L’Engle in A Wrinkle in Time.)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. —Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell

Here’s are a few of my personal favourite first lines of novels.

They shoot the white girl first. —Paradise, Toni Morrison.
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York. —The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath.
“When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets,” Papa would say, “she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing.” —Geek Love, Katherine Dunn.
Officious little prick. —The Shining, Stephen King.
The year I turned ninety, I wanted to give myself the gift of a wild night with an adolescent virgin. —Memories of my Melancholy Whores, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
She copes. —Paula Spencer, Roddy Doyle.
The magician’s underwear has just been found in a cardboard suitcase floating in a stagnant pond on the outskirts of Miami. —Another Roadside Attraction, Tom Robbins.

Many children and young adult books have rich and intriguing first lines. You might remember these:

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another his mother called him “WILD THING!” and Max said “I’LL EAT YOU UP!” so he was sent to bed without eating anything. —Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak.
Sophie had waited all of her life to be kidnapped. —The School of Good and Evil, Soman Chainani
There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. —The Voyage of the Dawn Trader, C. S. Lewis.
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife. —The Graveyard Book, Neil Gaiman.
“Where’s Papa going with that axe?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast. —Charlotte’s Web, E. B. White.

I’m also interested in the first lines of short stories. Here are a few that have stuck with me:

Miss Mandible wants to make love to me but she hesitates because I am officially a child. — Me and Miss Mandible, Donald Barthelme.
My first and favorite task of the day is slaving over the Iliana Evermore Fairy Castle. —Downtrodden Mary’s Failed Campaign of Terror, George Saunders
My lover is experiencing reverse evolution. —The Rememberer, Aimee Bender.
“I wouldn’t fuck Prince if he was the last man on earth,” Sonya told her friends, drunk and searing with challenge, that New Year’s Eve before the end. —1999, Pasha Malla.
The other day, Bobby Henzel and Nanami Kazikuyo drew up a list of things that Heaven doesn’t have. —Atheists Were Right About Almost Everything, by Neil Smith.
I once loved a woman who grew teeth all over her body. —Dentaphilia, Julia Slavin.

And I’ve learned first hand that opening lines can stir up controversy.

The day Margot discovered her true nature began like any other—she woke up, gave Pete a blow job, and went downstairs to fry up a pan of bacon. —Captcha, Katherine Fawcett.

These were the very first few words in the very first story in my very first published collection of fiction, The Little Washer of Sorrows. Yup, both fellatio and cholesterol, front and centre. Although I had some backlash (some people told me they “wouldn’t read that kind of book,”) I stand by that sentence. I knew it would be provocative. A ball-grabber, if you will. But it’s the kind of thing that Margot would really say; something she would really do, and it presents an invitation for the whole story.

Provocative may turn some people off, but it can also pull far more adventurous readers in. Many people told me they purchased The Little Washer based on that racy first line alone. Those are the readers who took a sip from the drink set in front of them, swished the liquid around in the glass, tossed it back, and said YES to the experience.

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AUTHOR BIO

Katherine Fawcett’s latest book, The Swan Suit, (Douglas & McIntyre, 2020) is a collection of stories that employ fairytale themes to examine the mystery of living in a body that betrays, in a world that isn’t always as it seems. Her previous book, The Little Washer of Sorrows (Thistledown Press, 2015) was a finalist for both a ReLit Award and the Sunburst Award for Excellence in Canadian Fiction of the Fantastical. Katherine is based in Squamish, BC.

THE SWAN SUIT

Blending banalities of everyday human routines and dilemmas with elements of fairy tales, magic, the macabre and the downright inventive, Katherine Fawcett’s fiction is anything but predictable.

In this collection, reimagined folktales appear alongside stories entirely new, serving to defamiliarize us from the undeniably odd tales we continue to pass down generation after generation, and lend a vague familiarity to the stories of Fawcett’s invention.

One of the three little pigs launches a line of high-end, easy-to-prepare, wolf broth–based meals. The Devil is on a mission to steal a child’s soul, but is distracted when he develops a massive crush on the day-care worker. A man stands in the shower contemplating his future when he discovers tiny mushrooms growing in his body’s various nooks and crannies.

Fawcett’s wry humour and prodigious imagination are an addictive mix. The weird becomes normal, and the normal, fascinating. Subverting expectations at every turn, her matter-of-fact style and narrative skill make this collection a must-read for any lover of short fiction.

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