A couple days ago I cracked open The Game and settled in for another great story.

First Line:

When Hayley arrived at the big house in Ireland, bewildered and in disgrace, rain was falling and it was nearly dark.

I paused–not because I was turned off by the story, but I realized just how much Jones packed into the first sentence.

1. Protagonist introduction
2. Setting
3. Protagonist’s state of mind and problem, or semblance of a problem
4. Time/atmosphere

One line in, and I know there’s a problem for this girl to deal with, and she’s totally out of her element. Who can’t relate to that?

In my first “Lessons Learned from Diana Wynne Jones” post, I covered the opening pages of Howl’s Moving Castle. That, too, packs a lot in a tight space. I started to wonder about the other Jones books I read, and basically piled them up into my arms and started sifting.

Unlike most boys, David dreaded the holidays. –Eight Days of Luke

1. David’s not like other kids–something sets him apart.
2. The time: holidays. Normally a more cheery time of year. Therefore…
3. Why wouldn’t a kid like David be excited about the holidays?

“Charmain must do it,” said Aunt Sempronia.  –House of Many Ways

1. There’s a not-quite-usual family dynamic involved here if the aunt dictates what the protagonist must do.
2. Unique names = unique place? Perhaps.
3. Do what? Got to learn more…

It was years before Christopher told anyone about his dreams. –The Many Lives of Christopher Chant

1. The protagonist has something unique going on with him–if these were normal dreams, they would not be worth a story.
2. Christopher does not trust easily, if it took years to open up about something most people seem to experience–who doesn’t dream?

I may as well start with some of our deep secrets because this account will not be easy to understand without them. –Deep Secret

1. The narrator seems to be our protagonist.
2. Deep secrets? Sounds, well, secret. Something people like you and me aren’t supposed to know. In-trigue!
3. Our? So the protagonist isn’t the only with with knowledge about this. We’ve got a secret group out there.
4. An account= something serious went down.

When I was small, I always thought Stallery Mansion was some kind of fairy-tale castle. –Conrad’s Fate

1. The narrator seems to be our protagonist.
2. There’s an established place near the narrator that is not normally approached by kids. Whether it’s intimidating or just well-protected, this place is bigger than life.
3. Something has changed this protagonist’s mind about that place. What?

The Dog Star stood beneath the Judgment Seats and raged. –Dogsbody

1. Stars don’t rage, do they? What the hoobajoob is going on?
2. Whatever it is, it’s not good, if he’s being judged for something.
3. This Dog Star has a temper. That’s can’t be good for a trial. I bet something’s going to go horribly, horribly wrong…

The note said: SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS A WITCH. –Witch Week

1. Class = bunch of kids
2. A note without a name = someone’s telling secrets…or lies.
3. If calling someone in the class a witch has to be done anonymously, it makes one wonder just how serious such an accusation is.

We have had Aunt Maria ever since Dad died. –Aunt Maria

1. Parent death = rough time for the kid(s).
2. We = the protagonist is not alone.
3. Had = Hmm. Doesn’t sound like the protagonist wants to have Aunt Maria around. They’re stuck with her. Why? And why is that a bad thing?

When Jocelyn Brandon died–at a great old age, as magicians tend to do–he left his house and his field-of-care to his grandson, Andrew Brandon Hope. –Enchanted Glass

1. Magic is clearly involved.
2. Family ties matter. And Andrew must be a special bit of family; a magician’s not going to leave his field-of-care to just any ol’ grandchild.
3. Field-of-care = Something magic-related, I’ll wager. That means the grandson must have some skill, too.

That should be enough for now.

I admit, it was difficult NOT to share more than the first line, since some of the second sentences added loads more. Still, these first lines of various lengths and styles all give a great sense of the story’s voice in just, oh, a dozen words or thereabouts. A writer who can do that again, and again, and again, and never give the reader a sense of déjà vu is most certainly worth a read or two.

Or thirty.

You get my meaning.

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