Set a tone and maintain it - Five ways to write a strong beginning

100 ways to improve your writing - Gary Provost 2019

Set a tone and maintain it
Five ways to write a strong beginning

Almost every arena of activity conveys some message about the tone or mood in which it is to be experienced. You are not expected to laugh out loud at a hanging, but it’s okay to laugh at a Seinfeld rerun. You shouldn’t scream when you find a great bargain at Macy’s, but it’s okay to scream at the carnival when the Tilt-A-Whirl spins you around. (Throwing up is also more acceptable there than at Macy’s.) In life, mixed messages about tone, such as gag napkins at a wake, are disturbing. The same is true in reading.

In your opening paragraph you set a tone. Your choice of words, your arrangement of those words, and your choice of information all convey to the reader some message about the tone of the story. In some way the writer, you, makes an announcement such as “This is urgent,” or “Let’s be practical,” or “Let’s laugh at this.”

The following passage becomes “wrong” when the writer creates a sudden and jarring shift in tone. He begins with a tone that is urgent, cruel, and efficient, but he switches to a tone that is poetic, leisurely, and analytical. Readers, believing they knew the writer’s attitude toward the material, are suddenly not so sure!

Myron slammed the gate behind him and walked straight up to the cop on duty. “Now,” he said, “I want that scum now.” The cop moved quickly to block the door. But Myron was quicker. He rammed a fist into the cop’s gut, and when the cop keeled forward, Myron sliced a karate chop into the back of his neck. The cop dropped with a thud. Myron yanked open the door to the cellblock. He ran down the corridor to cell 9. He pulled open his jacket and grabbed the pistol from his holster. “Arrivederci, scum!” he cried at Demetrius. There was a pitiful shriek, the blast of gunfire, then the panicky screaming of other prisoners who feared a massacre.

It was cool there in the cellblock, as cool as those distant mornings back in Trenton when Myron was a boy. The air here was light and refreshing, like a sparkling tonic brought in to douse the heat of the day. Even the cement walls around the cellblock had been painted a cool and soothing aqua, and on one end a mural of colorful birds enhanced the sense of calm. Myron was pleased with what he had done. For a moment he pretended that he was still sitting on the highest branch of that old cottonwood tree in Trenton, and he sipped slowly the heady air of success.