Sunday, May 15, 2022

Hook Sentences

Life ran away with me. In fact, I forgot where to find this blog. 


So, here's the deal, I'm focused on writing and publishing these days, BUT I'm teaching again a couple days a month. When I do, I don't toss out word prompts and photos. I give lessons on the art of writing. Every day I learn more about this art.


I'm thinking maybe I'll put some ideas from lessons here in case it might be of benefit to anyone else. 


This week I'm talking about HOOK SENTENCES. 


Hook sentences encourage the reader to remain interested in continuing to turn pages. There are opening hooks and closing hooks.  


There is a hook sentence at the beginning of a book, which includes the first sentence of the first chapter, which is also the first sentence of the first scene. But, wait, there's more!  


The author needs to put a hook sentence at the start of every chapter, and every scene. If you have five scenes in a chapter, that's five opening and five closing hooks which include the opening and closing chapter hook. 


Why are hooks important? They make a reader want to continue with the story. 


Let's look at the first sentence of Andy Weir's book, The Martian: I'm pretty much fucked. If that doesn't make you want to find out what happens next, I doubt anything ever will. 


Jill sat on the couch. Yeah, that's no hook sentence ever. 


Of course, it isn't as simple as putting in hook sentences and then following up with badly spelled, punctuated, and boring drivel. We have to write to reader expectations of the genre. The hook sets the reader's expectations. Without the hook, the reader might not bother reading more than a line or two.


Imagine: I'm pretty much fucked. Dad took the car keys and I'm grounded for life. Guess I'll go upstairs and watch the Kardashians. Makes you want to dive right in, huh? 


You, dear author, must write with your book arc, chapter arc and scene arc in mind AND make sure you have strong hook sentences at the beginning and end of each segment, be it book, chapter, scene, or short story.  


Thus far, it's been the opening hook I've addressed. The next type is the last sentence in every scene that makes the reader want to continue reading to see what happens. If it wraps everything up in a nice, tidy bow, then why bother? 


Remember the first sentence of The Martian? I'm pretty much fucked. The closing hook of the first scene is: I don't blame you, and I'm glad you survived. There are other people out there. Where are they? 


What is the hook in the next scene of the first chapter? I guess I should explain how Mars missions work, for any layman who might be reading this. The reader is going to learn something, so they read on. That scene ends with: You can imagine how disappointed I was when I discovered the MAV was gone. And we're back to him being in trouble. It increases the tension and the need to read more. 


The next scene in chapter one begins: It was a ridiculous sequence of events that led to me almost dying, and an even more ridiculous sequence that led me to surviving. Again, it increases tension, and the reader wants to know what happened. This scene ends with: The last thing I remember was seeing Johanssen hopelessly reaching out for me. Oh, no, then what happened? More tension.  


I won't go through all the scenes in the first chapter. Buy or borrow the book. It's a great read. What's important is how Weir uses each scene to increase tension, give backstory, and propel the story arc forward and uses powerful opening and closing sentences to hook the reader into reading further. 


Today I compiled six pages of opening hooks from books by trad published authors and popular indie authors. 


Here are a few: 

  • I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. – Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle 
  • Don't look for dignity in public bathrooms. – Victor LaValle, Big Machine
  • Men, Sima thought, can't live with them, can't beat them to death with a nine iron. – J.D. Robb, Festive in Death
  • The building was on fire and it wasn't my fault. - Jim Butcher, Blood Rites.
  • If at first you don't succeed, try again with a bigger gun. – Seanan McGuire, Chaos Choreography  
  • The little man in the synthetic tweed jacket didn't look like a bomb. – Jack Chalker, Lilith: A Snake in the Grass

 See if you can find great hooks, average hooks and lousy ones and see how well the book did, whether indie or trad pub. 


Keep writing! 

 

 

 

 

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Developing Writing Skills Using Random Words

I regularly participate in an memoir writing class at TASCA in Whitehouse, Texas taught by Author Brinda Carey

In addition to discussing issues relating to memoir, such as legal issues of writing about the living and recently deceased, we also discuss writing techniques.

One method used is to have each person in the room write a word on a slip of paper and then the teacher gives them all to us and we write a story based on them. 

I can end up with all the words in one sentence.  Brevity, thy name can be Marsha. 

Recently I was asked to provide the following for publication regarding what the class does: 

Writing is an exercise in flexibility and creativity. We flex our mental muscles in many ways; one is taking a set of random words and writing a short story using each of them in ten to twenty minutes.


Here’s the word list: ------------------->
First attempt: A salamander skin umbrella with a tentacle fringe is a timeless accessory for the fashion conscious.
That took only a few minutes and everyone else was still writing, so I thought – that’s the advertisement!

The story: Samantha Skiddlesmore-Braithwait-Cooperstein pressed her nose against the window of the boutique. She was practically drooling. There, in full living color, was a salamander skin umbrella. It even had a tentacle fringe. Everyone who was anyone had one these days. It was considered a timeless accessory. Not that she could afford it on the salary a low-level clerical witch made. But someday. Someday she’d have one too. Just like the over-minister of magic. Lucky woman. 

Marsha Graham is a wandering career changer who currently lives in Tyler. She’s an author and member of the East Texas Writers Guild. You can find her at the memoir class at TASCA most Wednesdays. Come join us – we need more random words.




Thursday, March 2, 2017

We Didn't Mean to Fall in Love

New article published in The Next Chapter of the East Texas Writers Guild. It's a canine-human love story for all those dog lovers.

Is there a dog who has meant everything to you?  Is she just "the living end?"

Do you mean everything to your dog? <3


Friday, January 13, 2017

Gallaudet University Anthology on Science Fiction and Fantasy

Last November I submitted a short story to a proposed anthology for deaf and hard of hearing authors who write in the field of fantasy and science fiction.

I've been working on a series about Mira Hunter, Mage of Boston. She has a complex life living with one foot in the mundane world and the other in the world of magic. She's a wounded warrior, has a morbid sense of humor, and struggles in the way so many of us do, especially in understanding things outside of her realm of experience.

Ghostly Demands is a look into what it would be like to deal with things even a magic worker doesn't understand. Because a Mage is not a Medium.

Tonight I received notice that Gallaudet University accepted Mira's story, giving her a voice in the world. Wrapped up with a hellhound, a medium, and a haunting, this is a story to give us all pause about what's important beyond the veil and how we deal with our losses.

No name on the anthology yet. We're going into pre-production editing and as soon as I know something it will be up for everyone to see.

We're off to give Mage Mira and her friends a presence in the world of humans!


Sunday, January 8, 2017

How Drunk Can You Get

The year was 1968. Janie, Sammy and I were enrolled in university. Our friend Micah was in a rigorous pre-med program and a member of a well-known Greek fraternity. He lived at the frat house. We lived in a shotgun house we rented for $60 a month from one of the professors at the U. We called our little gray abode the Gamma Delta Iota (God Damned Independents) sorority house. I was the introverted nerd. Sammy was the socialite. Janie was the glam gal wanna-be fashion designer.
I never understood why the hard-drinking, mostly jock frat gave Micah a bid. He was small, slender, not in the least athletic, a stereotypical “good boy” from rural Idaho, and academically inclined. Maybe they invited him because he could help them avoid flunking out. Whatever the reason, he was a square peg hammered into the round hole of a wild bunch.
It was the middle of the winter and colder than a “well digger’s knees,” as Dad used to say. We girls were sound asleep, having had no mischief to get into or high-stakes tests to cram for that would have kept us up all night. When, to paraphrase Clement Moore, there arose such a clatter we jumped from our beds to see what was the matter – at 2 a.m. Shortly after bar close.
On the other side of the door stood Micah. If you can call what he was doing standing. He was like an overcooked noodle, hanging off one of his gigantic Hawaiian football player frat brothers.  
Lambert, (you can tell I’m making these names up to protect the guilty, right?) dragged Micah into the kitchen, dumped him on one of the chairs at the table and said, “He’s ushering at church in the morning.” With that, Lambert simply left him there, as if we three girls with pillow creases on our faces were his collective mothers.
Micah was a boneless thing, slumped on the Formica table, part slug, part human. Blotto. Plastered. Stinko. I’m not sure any of those descriptions do service to the state Micah was in. He smelled like he’d fallen into a distillery vat and marinated. I’m not sure how he managed not to slither off the chair on the floor except that would have required movement.
We girls hatched a plan. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. We didn’t think about the fact he might have drunk so much he’d stop breathing, like some frat boys did every year. At our age, we had limited problem solving skills on board. So, we were shooting for wide awake drunk, at the very least. We were out of bacon and eggs. Since I had a convertible, we decided to put him in it and I’d drive to the store with the top down. I'd wear ten layers of clothing, and see if the bitter cold would wake Micah up.
I went out, got the car started, and put the top down. Not necessarily an easy thing in icy weather, what with needing to snap down the covering and all. Then it took all of us to get him down the steps and into the car. Micah collapsed against the passenger's door, his head bobbling over the side, a line of drool dripping down. I figured it might be for the best, in case he heaved. The outside of a car is easier to clean off frozen puke than the inside, after all.
Damn it was cold! Frostbite was not in our vocabulary or I might have had second thoughts. Kids! What can I say? We do the best with what few brains we have at that stage in our lives. We’re probably lucky any of us made it into adulthood.
By the time we got to Quik-Stop Micah was moaning a little. No stomach contents spewed in or on the car. All good!
It took a little doing, but I got him out of the car and doing a drunken imitation of standing, with one of his arms draped over my shoulder. I was capable of bucking hay bales so I was strong for a woman my size. Once I got him situated, as well as anyone can position someone whose bones have turned to mush, we made our staggering way into the all-night market.
Not looking right or left I lurched back to the cold case where I juggled a dozen eggs and a couple packages of bacon without dropping them or Micah. I was growing concerned about getting urped on with his increasing groans and grunts of distress.
Stumbling our way to the front we got to the check-out counter. I looked up and, lo and behold, was a man with a blue bandana over his nose like an Old West bandit. The woman at the register was stuffing money into a bag. Which meant…I was about to have an even worse night.
Here I am with a grunting, groaning drunk slung over my shoulder, eggs and bacon in the crook of one arm, and a driver’s license and a ten-dollar bill in the front pocket of my jeans. I kept my mouth shut instead of saying “Howdy, cold out, isn’t it? I never thought of wearing a bandana to keep warm.”
He looked from me to Micah and back. Micah picked that moment to belch loudly and we all flinched, not knowing what was coming next. Did I drop the eggs and bacon or drop Micah? Both? Hands in the air? What? I stared speechlessly at the man, waiting for a clue as to what my next action was going to be.
The robber, a guy even shorter than Micah, shook his head and said, “You’ve got enough trouble, lady.” He was right. I had too much on my hands as it was.
Micah grunted loudly and started making retching noises. The man took off, probably afraid of getting puked on. The clerk slammed the till shut, reached under the counter, pulled out a purse and walked out into the night without so much as a coat.
“Hey, lady, I need to pay for this!” I said.
“I quit. This is the third time I’ve been held up. Leave the money on the counter. No one cares.”
So, I put some money on the counter and half walked, half dragged my gagging friend outside.
The pay phone on the front of the store was missing the receiver so I had no way to call the police. Not to mention I didn’t want to stand out in the cold and wait for them. And Micah was underage to drink, so I didn’t want to go there with the cops. We didn’t have a phone at home. Being a Pole I defaulted to the old proverb, not my circus, not my monkeys. If the woman who just quit didn't want to call her boss or call the police from a phone in the back, that was her business. I hoped she wouldn’t freeze to death before she got to where she was going.
Micah upchucked in the parking lot. Better than in the car, I say! There was no such thing as a car wash then—we’d have had to clean it by hand. I drove home with Micah making hiccupping sounds and rolling his head in the bitter cold. I remember having to turn the defroster on to keep the windshield from icing over. We got back to the house and he didn’t decorate the car with puke. A win for me! The lawn was not so fortunate.
By the time we got back Janie had a pot of perked coffee on the stove that was stout enough to stand a spoon up in. Even Sammy knew how to make buttered toast. They tended to Micah while I whipped up eggs and bacon.
In between us pouring coffee down him and shoving food into him he made offerings to the porcelain god. By the time dawn broke we had ourselves a wide-awake drunk on our hands. What he needed was time to sleep it off. What he did not have was time. Wrecked or not, he was expected to be the usher at church. No phone, remember? Couldn't call in sick.
Loaded Mr. Reeks-Of-Booze-And-Vomit into the car and took him to his frat house. This time the top was up, the heater was on, and the smell was ghastly. I beat on the door until one of his fellow lushes answered. I guess the house mother was asleep, or maybe off to church services herself. It wasn’t too long before they had him showered, shaved, dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, and back at the car. Why didn’t they take him? Probably still sleeping it off. Why was I sitting outside in the car? Because I was a patsy. And Micah was my friend, he was a good guy, and this was totally unlike him.  
We arrived on time - a minor miracle. Pastor Wills was waiting. We made it up the stairs to the chapel on the second floor of the campus building. I motioned Pastor Wills over and said, “We tried to sober him up, but…” 
Micah passed out, face first, on the carpet as he was walking toward the front of the nave. I’d like to say it was graceful. It wasn’t. At least he didn’t break his nose or bleed all over. Wills said he’d look after him so I took off, longing to get some shut eye after an all-nighter with a plastered man.
What’s the moral of the story?
I hear people my age gripe about Millennials. Irresponsible. Drink too much. Use drugs. The next time grandpa starts harping, have him read about Micah. 
We were the tail end of the Flower Power generation. Even my candy apple red convertible had huge flower stickers on it. I knew people who came back from ‘Nam hooked on heroin. Lots of people smoked pot. Drinking was outrageous in those days. Millennials aren't so bad. Old fogies like to forget how crazy we were.
What about Micah, you might ask?
As far as we girls knew, that was Micah’s only descent into drunken madness. It was probably some frat ritual that went horribly wrong with a clean-cut kid from a sheltered home in a small town. As a pre-med student, he went back to doing his nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel routine. He continued to live in a frat house with goings on much like the 1978 film Animal House. Toga parties. Wild nights with sorority sisters. You name it, it happened there. He was not Mr. Personality so maybe all the frenetic gatherings made it easier for him to meet people. Who knows? We never dated him, we were simply his friends.
That frat almost had their campus charter revoked a few times over sex, drugs, wild parties, fights, disturbing the peace, and rock-and-roll. It is still there and still probably as raunchy as ever. I can only assume their house mother was deaf, dumb, blind, and paid off.

I transferred overseas on an exchange program and then to a different stateside university by the time Micah finished his studies. He and I kept in touch with Janie, which is how I learned he eventually became the only doctor in a tiny community in a poverty pocket. That’s the Micah we knew, the selfless one who somehow ended up living at Animal House, but grew up to be a pillar of the community and a deacon in his church. You did us proud, Micah.