Every writer learning the craft has sat down and started a “woke-up” story.
You know the kind of story I’m talking about.
The writer does not have an idea, so the story begins with the protagonist waking up.
Natural opening, right?
The protagonist wakes up in the usual bed, looks around the bedroom, maybe has some thoughts of love for the spouse on the next pillow; rolls out of bed, does pushups; looks in the mirror and describes him or her self at length, thus getting that out of the way; hauls out the toothbrush, gets them molars; spits; gets dressed; and of course the clothing now has to be described, that’s something to do; then leaves the house and you can now describe the neighborhood, all while the protagonist heads for work; and it doesn’t matter whether this is contemporary or in some fantastic world, the result is still the same, the writer grimly pushing on, in the vain hopes that the protagonist’s path will somehow intersect a story before too long.
This story is a trap that has snared any number of us, because, really, getting up in the morning is a great natural opener, right? Everybody has to get up in the morning! What’s more, we have all read genuinely terrific stories that began with the character getting up in the morning — and THEY went somewhere, didn’t they? DIDN’T THEY?
Yes, they did. Because the writers had some idea what was going to happen before the characters woke up, and were actually planting vital information while those characters were putting around brushing their teeth and taking their daily shits. Sometimes they even managed to start that story before being done with the first sentence. Gregor Samsa woke up and found that he had transformed into a giant insect. Okay, there were go. We’re right in the middle of it, there.
But that wake-up story where the writer actually has no destination and the character’s march down the street is the equivalent of some Cro-Magnon paddling into the ocean on his canoe in the theory that there might be land, somewhere out there, beyond the horizon — even when there’s usually not — that has been the killer of more writing time than Candy Crush. That is flailing. That is an exercise in effort chasing itself, like a snake eating its own tail. And I suspect more of us have begun stories of this type, than not.
Comment By: Cheryl Martin
August 31st, 2017 at 10:17 am
I tend to glaze over when I encounter such openings. Or skip ahead to find out if something finally happens. Mostly, I hope writers keep such openings in their failed attempts drawer and write something good.
Comment By: David Alexander McDonald
August 31st, 2017 at 12:17 pm
“Woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Went downstairs and drank a cup….”
Thanks, Adam-Troy, now I want to give Sergeant Pepper’s a listen.
Comment By: Steve Perry
August 31st, 2017 at 1:17 pm
Yeah, but that’s how half the blues songs ever written start out: I woke up this morning, turned out I was dead/ yeah, I woke up this morning, turned out I was dead/when you wake up not breathin’, it really screws with your head …
Comment By: Adam-Troy Castro
August 31st, 2017 at 3:17 pm
Guys, I know that perfectly good stories can begin with people waking up. The post acknowledges that.
This is about another phenomenon entirely, the aimless wandering in search of a story.
Comment By: David Alexander McDonald
August 31st, 2017 at 6:17 pm
I know. But I did end up playing Sergeant Pepper’s (mono version!)
Comment By: Steve Perry
August 31st, 2017 at 3:17 pm
We know. Just pulling your leg.