“Gifts,” A Look at Story Editing
“Gifts,” A Look at Story Editing
How to Start a Story:
Orientation, Threshold, and The Hook
In this video series, we’ll take a look at basic narrative structure through the lens of a typical short story submission.
In each reading period we receive hundreds of stories, many of which are well written and promising, yet often they fall off the rails by trying too hard, explaining too much, or missing some basic elements of story structure.
So, let’s get started by taking a look at a story opening, and some revisions we might make to better engage the reader and hook them into the tale.
Original Opening
Either I would die in my basement, or I would open the doors and fly out like Superman. And I was never going to fly.
I had spared no effort in making my subterranean space affordable. If you soak your own beans and boil your own rice, a disability check goes a long way.
Cheap book shelves and superhero posters covered the cinder block walls. There was a table, a workbench, and a comfortable old, corduroy couch. A hammock slung between two supports served as my bed.
For a kitchen, I used a slop sink, a cutting board, and a modern, folding hot pad. My window on the world was 12 inch, wireless tablet that brought me all the world’s news as soon as the world knew it.
In short, at the age of 36, I had comfortably retreated from life, making my peace within a universe of only 800 square feet, bound up in a small world lit by efficient LEDs and made bearable by shelf after shelf laden with science fiction and superhero comics, a few graphic novels, and my art supplies.
Actually, I was doing OK. Enjoying the best days of my life before they came!
The aliens found Earth and immediately started bombing. I lost my sister in the first two weeks and my parents soon after. Worse, Cali, the retired Martian I’d met online and who soon became my lifeline to the outside world… she didn’t return a single text after they hit Pittsburgh.
Cali was the only outsider I had welcomed into my basement. She was my bringer of groceries and art supplies and the only shoulder I had left to cry on. Now, when I had less than a dozen cans of spam left under the stairs, my Cali, my always reliable Cali, was gone!
Of course, food wasn’t my first concern. My supply of Bristol board was running low and I had spent three months saving up for some new rapidograph pens. Cali had promised to deliver them on a Wednesday, but I sat watching the door to the upstairs for hours and she never knocked, never returned another invitation to chat.
Revised Opening
Either I would die in my basement, or I would open the doors and fly out like Superman. And I was never going to fly.
By my mid-thirties, I had spared no effort in making my subterranean space a practical refuge, and that was before the benefaction, the “gifting,” or the invasion — whatever you wanted to call it. Still, my illusion of independence was quick to shatter.
“Bridget, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be leaving. Mars, I think.”
I heard the words and blocked them at the same time. It was Cali and she was cutting off my lifeline. I hung up on her quickly, as if she hadn’t called, and when my phone rang again, I didn’t wait for her to speak.
“They don’t deliver anymore!” I yelled, as if that would end any argument.
“Who doesn’t?” Cali asked.
“Anyone. Groceries-Amazon-Post Office!”
“What do you need? You know there’s probably a dozen cylinders right outside your door.”
“No! I’m not going out. I’m not! It’s snowing and I can’t get heating oil!”
“All…right.” The word was drawn out. “There are a lot of preppers who aren’t going anywhere. I can get you connected.”
“I need you!”
A pained sigh. Cali’s next words carried the weight of annoyance. “What do you need?”
“I’m running out of Bristol board, and I want some new rapidograph pens. Please!”
Before Cali could answer, something bad happened. The call dropped and the ground trembled, in that order.
The house shook and the basement walls groaned. If it had been a car flying downhill, out of control, with my porch as its destination, it could not have made a stronger impact.
My knees buckled with fright and I went down, hitting my head against the table as I did so. At first, I thought I had knocked myself senseless, but the darkness I experienced was the power going down. Basements can be blacker than night when the lights go out.