A lot of us are waiting around for the First Chapters contest results to be announced. I had an idea that might help us pass the time and maybe help our writing a bit too. It's called The Right Hook. We've all seen how important hooking a reader is. Do you have a hook you want to show off? (keep it short) A hook that needs work? Do you want to comment on especially good hooks you saw in the contest? What kind of hooks didn't go it for you? Do you want to comment on a hook that has been posted in this thread? Feel free.
I tried something similar to this earlier, but I made it way too complicated. I went back and couldn't even figure out it was supposed to work a couple of days later. The rules here are simple: If you have a hook you want to show off or something to say about hooks, it is welcome here.
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Dale
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Comments: 23
but I only get two points if my underwear's too tight and the cat hasn't been fed and nobody answered the door when the Jehovah's Witnesses showed up.
No, that's not it either. Wait, I think I got it now. If I get three points after someone posts a right hook and four other people each comment twice on it, then I have to leave the room and go floss the cat. Or laminate the rhinoceros... or -- no, that's not it, either!
Oh, bother! I'll never understand these rules!
Why do we have to have a point system, anyway? Can't we just have fun writing stuff?
Whew!
Rita :o)
At nine P.M. on an August night, Jim Drew's desk reached out and grabbed him. The fake woodgrain bulged out toward him in the shape of finger, then a hand. That hand grabbed his wrist before he had time move or scream.
Jim pulled back, and woodgrain hand grew a long slender arm. Another part of the desk bulged out in the shape of a face. Then Jim screamed. He also tried to push back away from the desk with his other hand. That hand went into the desk, feeling a soap bubble of resistance. Jim fell forward and saw the woodgrain stretch in front of his face, then disappear. The surface of the desk rippled for a second after he went through it, then became still. The bulges of the arm and face stayed. Jim disappeared along with all traces of his passage. A faint breeze moved his calendar back and forth, emphasizing a note in red ink. The note said, "Beth's first high school band concert--eight this evening. Have to be there."
The breeze carried musical feminine laughter, and a faint odor that hinted of a park or forest preserve. It wandered through the maze of cubicles in the empty office, gradually losing more of itself until it was no longer recognizable.
John G: I think we have a clue here that this is going to be fantasy.
Lori F: Since nobody else has commented on yours: I think we have the makings of a serial killer here. I'm guessing that mother dearest will eventually be a victim. Close?
Prologue
February 16, 1992
Moonlight glinted off the windshield of a black '68 Chevy Impala. Someone had parked it hastily, nosed in at a careless angle beside a striped barrier that marked the end of an unpaved mountain road. The cone-shaped beam of a flashlight danced out of the woods lining the road, grazed the car's old yellow-on-black California plate, and disappeared.
It reappeared a moment later, an earth-bound ellipse guiding a lone hiker out of the forest. Boots crunching on gravel, the hiker crossed the road and peered through the driver's side window. The beam of light slid over a gleaming dashboard, caressed a leather-bound steering wheel, and came to rest on a set of keys dangling from the ignition.
The hiker looked around slowly with his head held high, as though sniffing the air for some trace of the car's owner. Frowning, he cracked the door and pocketed the keys before striding into the darkened forest beyond. He was of average height, with broad, muscular shoulders and black hair pulled into a pony tail that snaked down his back. The frown remained in place, lending him an air of apprehension, a certain vulnerability that made him seem younger than he was. His breath formed a mist in the air before him and hung for an instant after he passed.
He broke from the forest into a clearing bisected by a tall chainlink fence. An old man waited there, barrel-chested, beak-nosed, his lined face grim. The hiker faltered at the sight of him and came on across the clearing more slowly than before. He halted two yards from the old man and inclined his head in a bow. There was a flicker of something not quite sound, a silent greeting passed mind-to-mind.
--Michael.--
--Emmett.--
...and so on...
Cathy
Lori F. - another good hook, though you might want to start with "How he hated his mother." Then come in with the watching part.
John G. - Okay. That sentence is perfect. So much information, so few words...
Ian M. - I agree with you, that was a great first line.
Cathy
Here's is the firt paragraph of a science fiction novel I am working on:
Zanforalternodous knew that by dawn Atlantis would be destroyed in a watery cataclysm, and mostly he felt relief. The high priest's gray robes clung to his lean frame like a burial shroud as he rapidly moved his magnetic stylus upon the console. Behind him stood bronze doors, guarding the dwelling place of his god, Phaethon. As he updated tomorrow's schedule, Zanforalternodous could feel Phaethon's presence in his mind, physic tendrils constantly probing his consciousness. The effect was supposed to be soothing. It should be a comfort to have one's god so close, so intimate. And for the most part, Zanforalternodous was comforted. His foremind dwelt on feelings of contentment, pleased to be serving his god as he made plans for the final day of the seven-day Spring Equinox Festival.
Here's yet another hook for you:
Sebastian Allen Potter (Red to his small circle of friends) wore his secret like a little boy wearing a big man's coat. It was far too big for him and he knew it. A man can only be as big as his dreams and his ability to translate those dreams into reality. Red dreamed small dreams--dreams of a nice house, a steady income, time to enjoy watching his son and daughter grow up, maybe even of a nice vacation somewhere exotic someday—and a woman to help him enjoy it. All of those dreams would have fit in a small corner of Red's secret. Red's secret could give him the world if he wanted it—and if he could handle it.
"I don't want it."
A passerby glanced at the short, wiry, sunburned man sitting alone on the park bench, then looked away and hurried on. Red looked down at his faded blue jeans and his T-shirt with the rip at the shoulder. "Probably thinks I'm one of those homeless guys that talks to himself on park benches."
Red's grin faded. "Course I am talking to myself, and I did sleep in my car last night." He didn't add that yesterday he had impulsively stolen something for the first time in his adult life. "And it's going to get me killed."
Red looked at the thin brown paper bag sitting on the bench beside him. One end of the dusty, nondescript black hardcover book had slid out. He hastily pushed it back into the bag. "I could leave it here—walk away and go down to one of the other temp agencies to get another job." If it had been spring he would have done that. "It's almost September. I can't live in my car all winter."
He stood up, contemplated the downward spiral of no shower and no clean clothes translating into no job, or progressively more menial ones. He knew that the secret was too big for him, but he also knew it was his only way out.
A few others:
Snow.
White.
Crisp, pristine.
It blanketed the yard, every nook and cranny, every tree limb and utility line. Every fencepost and porch step.
The whole damn field beyond was covered with nature's greatest irony.
So much work had gone into making the old farm seem cared for. As if a decade of abandonment had never happened. And while the snow hid the neglect, it also covered all the repairs and painstaking labor eight hardy souls had so lovingly and determinedly provided.
She hated snow.
(This is from Fairest Of Them All - yes, another fairy tale adaptation.)
Another: "The Earl of Montfort's day was well on its way to hell." (From Through The Leaded Glass, a time travel medieval romance set by way of the PA Renaissance Faire.)
Another: If Erica Peck were a gambler, she would've laid good money that nothing could ever get her in the waters of the North Atlantic again.
The snub-nose 38 special now trained on her would've lost her that bet.
(From In Over Her Head, a paranormal romance novel.)
Prologue to a Romantic Suspense, Timing Is Everything:
It had to look random--an arbitrary murder. Not suspicious whatsoever.
Well, anymore than a random murder would be.
He hiked his pants on his thighs and hunched down in the bushes. He glanced at his watch. Five thirty-seven. Any minute now.
Stupid of people to be so predictable. How many times had he heard "vary your schedule?" Too bad this guy hadn't learned it.
The "rap-rap" of rubber soles on pavement, faint at first, got louder on the deserted path around the park. Medium pace, long-distance runner.
He stretched the rope until it jerked, winding the ends around his gloved hands. Yeah, stupid to keep to the same schedule, day after day, week after week.
He took a deep breath, willing the tension to subside. This had to go smoothly. That was how he'd planned it.
Down to the last detail.
It was all in the timing.
Timing was everything.
Another: The day my husband of twenty-three years died, the bright, sunny beach umbrella that held up my life, slowly and inexorably collapsed.
(WIP)
A final one: "Okay, which one of you wants to have my baby?"
Have at 'em!
-Judi
Isola Del Drago~
Dragon Island was a land hidden from human's view by the power of the Cristallo Dell'Occhio Del Drago 'Dragon's Eye Crystal'. A clear and sparkling stone the size of a dragon's palm set in the mouth of a solid gold dragon statue. It sat under a domed ceiling with a small opening in the top, in the highest tower of the Dragon Castle. The stone's power came from the sun that filtered through the opening, giving it enough power, that if it fell into the wrong hands, it could destroy an entire country.
The valuable stone belonged to the Wyvern of the Black and White sept, Lord Scuro Wyte, passed on from one generation to the next of the Black and White sept. It was said to have belonged to the first Black and White Wyvern and was filled with his very essence. Nobody knew for sure if it was truly his 'eye' as the legends said; all they knew is it served its purpose in keeping their dragon world hidden and it was the responsibility of the Wyvern in each new generation to guard it and keep his sept safe from humans by using this stone.
However, now word had traveled to Scuro that the ancients were joining the human world led by Viralaco Draco, with his son, Vileo Draco as the Ruling Wyvern. He wasn't very happy about this change of events. Joining the human world could be dangerous, especially for dragons such as his that had limited contact with the outside world. They didn't use the modern technology the other dragons did. They didn't need it on their hidden island, but if they were to join the human world as was directed, they would have to learn to live in it.
Scuro didn't want to live in the human world. He stood in the high tower with his hand gently caressing the stone. His treasure protected the Black and White sept. Why should he move his sept into a world that had no use for dragons? Especially considering his stone kept them hidden from human eyes.
"You sent for me father?"
"Time can be ones enemy. Did you know that?" Scuro turned his head to look over his shoulder at his son Drago Wyte. He was his eldest of two sons, but at times, he was disappointed in him. He was too compassionate and patient. Scuro couldn't seem to instill in his son the necessity of being cold, hard, and sometimes, even brutal to rule.
"In what way father?" Drago calmly walked across the smooth gilded floor to stand behind his father. He stared at the small golden wyvern holding the valuable stone as his father continued to caress it like a gentle lover's touch.
The oval room was opulent. The walls gilded with gold had jewels of every kind used as an edging along the ceiling and floor, while the gilded floor had intricate dragon designs etched into it. The room spoke of wealth, beauty, and power. The power from the crystal was so strong; one could feel it pulsating while standing so close to it as Drago was right now. It pulsated like a heartbeat, and once again, Drago wondered about the dragon essence that was said to be held in the stone.
Did you want a "hook," (often referred to as a book jacket description) or the opening of a novel? Looks like we've got both going on here. I'll be back tonight to review and possibly submit mine. This is an area I definitely need help with! Thanks for this thread!
A double dinger???? Nice job!
As for the "hook" question...I'm thinking peple are confused. A "hook" isn't the opening of a book. A hook is generally what's used on your query letter or book jacket to "hook" the agent or reader. According to Miss Snark:
Starting point for creating a hook
This is the "template" that isn't.
It's a list to make sure you've got all the elements in your hook.
You won't just substitute things for XYZ, you'll make this over into your own work.
It's not a template; it's a starting point.
X is the main guy; he wants to do:
Y is the bad guy; he wants to do:
they meet at Z and all L breaks loose.
If they don't resolve Q, then R starts and if they do it's L squared.
posted by Miss Snark
And thanks, Steve! Will let you know.