The first page of a novel is, arguably, the most important. An author only has a few paragraphs to grab the reader’s attention, so first pages must be nothing short of perfect. They have to effectively set up the world, introduce characters, intrigue the reader, and do all of this without seeming rushed, bloated, or overbearing. A seemingly impossible task, but I’m starting to realize that a fantastic opening isn’t something that just happens – it’s something that is painstakingly crafted across multiple revisions of a manuscript.

Recently, I finished the (tentative) final draft of my space opera, Infinity’s Heir. The manuscript started at 93K words and over the course of six revisions, slowly shrank to 68K words. There was a reason so many words were cut from the final draft and the final version is far better for it. These edits, however, aren’t worth much if the first page of the novel isn’t able to hold a reader’s interest. And, honestly, the initial opening of the work wasn’t up to the task.

Over six revisions, the beginning of the manuscript changed significantly. But the changes were for the better and the beginning of Infinity’s Heir is now far more challenging to the reader than it was initially.

Note: The examples below focus on the most revised portion of the first page – the first five paragraphs. 

So let’s start with Version 1:

        The pale red sun glinted along the edge of Geidal’s atmosphere, the crimson crescent in contrast with the vivid swirl of green and blue that kissed the horizon. The sight was enough to bring tear to the most stolid eyes, even those that had seen a millennium of conflict.
        Emmech looked out at his home from the bridge of the Valkour, an involuntary mist clouding the edges of his vision. A year he had been separated from his kin, sailing through the vast emptiness of space, tending to all those within his realm. Below, they waited for him, eagerly glancing towards the stars he traveled between, praying to Odin and the lesser gods to spare him from harm.
        It seemed those prayers had worked.
        The deck plates shifted, vibrating beneath the soft leather soles of Emmech’s boots as the helmsmen turned towards home. Geidal grew before them, the soft light of the morning sun drowned by sudden fire racing across the thick iron hull. Emmech listened as the metal groaned in protest, resisting the surging flames that sought to melt them from the sky. They faded quickly as the ship slowed, flames replaced by the rushing of wind. It jostled them back and forth, slapping at the ungainly lump of iron that belonged in the quiet void of space.
        The men around him cursed and reached for anything that would help them keep their feet, but Emmech stood in defiance against the wind. As the deck moved under him, so did his feet, dancing to the rhythm that sought to knock him over. A thousand times he had done this dance and each time the wind had lost. This time proved no different and as the Valkour rested gently on snow covered ground, Emmech was regarded with awe by all that stood in his presence.

The initial beginning of Infinity’s Heir highlighted the main character’s (MCs) return home, but much of the feedback from readers focused on the heavy-handed descriptions in the first few paragraphs.  And many readers didn’t like the fact that there wasn’t a description of the MCs ship. And though reviews became more favorable as people read past the first page, the lack of impact at the very beginning seemed to prevent the work from making a truly memorable first impression.

So I made changes. Here’s Version 2:

        Emmech looked out at his home from the bridge of the Valkour, an involuntary mist clouding the edges of his vision. A year he had been separated from his kin, sailing through the vast emptiness of space, tending to all those within his realm. Below, they waited for him, eagerly glancing towards the stars, praying to Odin and the lesser gods to spare him from harm.
        It seemed those prayers had worked.
        The deck plates shifted, vibrating beneath the soft leather soles of Emmech’s boots as the helmsmen turned towards home. Geidal grew before them, the soft light of the morning sun drowned by sudden fire racing across the thick iron hull. Emmech listened as the metal groaned in protest, resisting the surging flames that sought to melt them from the sky. They faded quickly as the ship slowed, replaced by the rushing of wind. It jostled them back and forth, slapping at the ungainly lump of iron that belonged in the quiet void of space.
        Men cursed around him, reached for anything that would help them keep their feet, but Emmech stood in defiance against the wind. As the deck moved under him, so did his feet. A thousand times he had done this dance and each time the wind had lost. This time proved no different and as the Valkour rested gently on snow covered ground, Emmech was regarded with awe by all that stood in his presence.

The description of Geidal is gone and focus is shifted to the MC. Even so, not much is going on. And, honestly, a lot of what is going on isn’t especially important.

In Version 3, the beginning remained untouched, but significant changes were  made to the rest of the manuscript. This holds true for Version 4 of the manuscript, as well (only a single word is changed in this version).

But there were significant changes in Version 5:

        The deck plates vibrated beneath the soft leather soles of Emmech’s boots as the helmsmen turned home. Geidal grew in the view screen, the soft light of the morning sun drowned by sudden fire that raced across the thick iron hull. Emmech listened as the metal groaned in protest, resisted the flames that sought to melt them from the sky. They faded quickly as the ship slowed, replaced by rushing wind. It jostled the ship back and forth, slapped at the ungainly lump of iron that belonged in the quiet void of space.
        But like every time before, the ship held its place in the sky and came to rest on pristine white snow, unharmed.
        Emmech breathed a sigh of relief.
        He turned and locked eyes with each man. They fought well this past year, earned their place beside him.
        “We are home gentlemen.”
        They met the words with expressions of joy. Each man was, undoubtedly, thinking of the family that waited eagerly for his return. Emmech smiled at the thought of his queen. The prospect of seeing her again quickened his pace. Men fell in behind him and a score of steps echoed from Valkour’s thick iron plating.

The first few paragraphs are leaner and fewer words are used to convey the same ideas. But, according to feedback, there were still a few things missing: a central conflict that grabs the reader’s attention and a description of the MCs vessel (the second point is something that was consistently mentioned).

So I produced the current version. Version 6:

        “Fear the reckoning of those you have wronged.”

        It was a fitting phrase, but one that had long since been forgotten. That much, at least, was clear. But soon, the value of that lesson would be taught. There would be a reckoning and vengeance for every year of suffering would be exacted.
        The dark figure paced restlessly back and forth in front of the round window. Outside and below, an opalescent sphere hung silently beneath a pale red sun. The figure paused in front of the window and placed massive hands on the metal-framed glass. The hands weren’t his, but were strong enough to enact the vengeance he sought.
        As he stared down at the sphere, a flash of flame streaked across the swirl of blue, green, and white.
        The figure’s eyes gleamed and its mouth twisted in savage anticipation. “It’s almost time.”

***

        The deck plates vibrated beneath the soft leather soles of Emmech’s boots as the helmsmen turned home. Geidal grew in the view screen, the soft light of the morning sun drowned by sudden fire that raced across the thick iron hull. Emmech listened to the metal groan in protest, resist the flames that sought to melt them from the sky. They faded quickly as the ship slowed, replaced by rushing wind. It jostled the iron warship back and forth, slapped at the hard chined hull that looked more at home in the water than in the quiet void of space.
        But like every time before, the ship held its place in the sky and came to rest heavily on the snow covered ground, the hot iron melting the white fluff beneath the vessel into a sheet of brittle ice.. The angled engines quickly quieted and the blue-white flames that had held the Valkour aloft moments before faded to naught but wisps of smoke.
        Emmech breathed a sigh of relief.
        He turned and locked eyes with each man. They fought well this past year, earned their place beside him.
        “We are home gentlemen.”

This new beginning sets the tone for what the reader can expect. It starts with an ominous quote that immediately poses multiple questions: Who is speaking? Who was wronged? What kind of reckoning? As the reader continues, answers are hinted at, but never fully given. And as the scene comes to a close, one final tease is presented to the reader: “It’s almost time.”. Time for what?

All of these questions are supported by words and phrases like “reckoning”, “vengeance”, and “savage anticipation”. They build tension. And the transition from this section to the next, the MCs return home, only heightens the underlying tone of dread that the reader (hopefully) feels moving forward. What is going to happen? When is it going to happen? Why is it going to happen? And to whom?

Writers want to tell a story, but no story can be told without an audience. So we must make sure that the first page poses questions that challenge the reader to continue – that force them to turn the page. Because what is the point of reading on if everything is peaches and cream? Why care if everyone is happy and there is no sense of conflict? Dread? Impending doom?

That’s why the first five versions of Infinity’s Heir fail. I spent too much time trying to set up the perfect beginning and forgot about the readers. I forgot that they didn’t have knowledge of what was to come. So, while I knew that the perfectly portrayed beginning would come crashing down around the MC, readers remained oblivious. And that was boring!

But the good news is that I did eventually put together a beginning worth a reader’s time (at least, I think so). Of course, I’m far from an impartial observer in all of this. Infinity’s Heir is my work and one that I’m very fond of.

There is, however, a takeaway from all of this: that with time, and effort, the task becomes easier. And that’s the most important point of all. Because without a beginning, there can be no end.