Often, an oblique opening is more powerful and engaging than a direct, specific beginning. To pace the reveal is to captivate the reader, to draw them into the story by piquing their curiosity.
All good stories have the reader wanting to know ‘What happens next’. A slow reveal, possibly with some potential misdirection, and then presenting an unexpected disclosure enhances the reader's craving to know more.
The following is from a work in progress, where I illustrate how an indirect opening to a scene, or scenario, follows this principle.
I am open to your questions and comments. Please use the contact form on my website to contact me directly. This can be found at the base of the home page, https://paulwhiteauthor.wixsite.com/paul-white---author or scan the QR code on the accompanying image.
The Girl in Room 17. (Working Title)
She felt the cool air rush over her skin as he rolled from her chest to lie panting by her side. His breath was warm and ticklish on her neck.
It was in the few moments before, when he collapsed spent and exhausted onto her breasts, she allowed that momentary dream to surface.
He was her lover, embracing her. His weight pressing down upon her, a conformation of their relationship, of promise, of love. He would keep her safe, protected, wanted, loved.
She reached for the bed sheet as the air began to chill her skin.
"No", he said, propping himself up on his arm. I want to watch.
Those could have been perfect words, in another world, in her dream world.
Her dream vanished like a twist of smoke.
He grasped her left leg, pulling it towards him, opening her for the other man, the balding, fat one, who now knelt between her legs.
"Too late to change your mind, we have already paid," his smile a crooked snarl.
Only she was not looking at him, but to a place beyond.
This time, there was nowhere for the dream; just a blankness of being, a nothingness.
She waited for the door to close before allowing the tears to roll down her cheeks.
Pulling the soiled sheets over her, shutting the cold air from her skin, was all the comfort she would find until the sun rose over the rooftops.
Until then, she had work to do.
She had a family to support.
They needed the money she sent home each month.
They were proud of her, of her life as a dancer.
Not that they knew which dances she performed.
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