someone please correct me if you actually know the origin, but i'm afraid this is just a random genious on the internet. because anywhere i've come across it, was just in different posts. but daaamn if it doesn't resonate and make me wish i came up with that, because i feel it in my soul 🫀
‘Tis Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'
I believe both are true...a kind gesture, the smile of a strangers recognition - I see you you - and then there are no strangers anymore. The weird little dog, you call the number on the tag. You make a friend while you wait.
what i find the most heartwarming about this, is the aspect of loving things that you do. that even if you have once had a hobby (say play a guitar) but you don't anymore, that time is not wasted. somewhere, sometime it'll come back and you'll use what you remember of it...or you won't and you'll have fond memories and experiences from those times...it's forever in us
Ever glimpse a face that's looking back at you with an offer to smile that made you smile; a landscape sudden that sears itself on you not to ever be forgotten. A sound, an aroma, a shiver. '...it's forever in us." I like that. It's memory. And I carry it with me.
Our potential driveway was short and slightly steeped, off a windy two-lane road. The pavement was black but with no consequence; it was February in Massachusetts, and a translucent sleet-slop clung to the Volvo’s worn treads. I craned my head, gripping the handle on the passenger door until my knuckles went white, and bit my tongue. Patrick would advance a bit, then slide backward. Our real estate agent stopped her black Lincoln SUV short of the entrance, a line of cars slowly building behind her.
My opening line. Fenton had come to hate "Lifesaver." What follows is: Not the melody, which was his, or the arrangement, or that it was overplayed, but the lyrics which his older brother Gabe had insisted upon. The fact that Gabe had been a fair distance from the South Saskatchewan River that day, didn’t seem to matter, nor that it was Fenton’s experience on which he had based the lyrics.
I'm a little late, but here's the opening line of my latest short story:
The cursor on the screen blinked at him mockingly.
And the paragraph:
The cursor on the screen blinked at him mockingly. There was so very little to say after the failure of his most recent experiment. It wasn’t even worth reporting. But ideas had been aggressively marketed, interest had been piqued, and money had been granted, so very much money. Now Arthur had to come up with some way to say that the failure had been a success, that the dreams peddled yielded results commensurate with the value invested. But it hadn’t, and the more he let the situation marinate in his mind, the more the reality of his dilemma became clear. As he thought about the promises preemptively made, he wondered, did we commit fraud?
Your opening promises tension. Between what follows on the computer and him, whom we find out later is Arthur, and who is becoming increasingly worried, until we find out in the end that there could be legal implications. I like your use of marinate in his mind...
Azra hit enter and watched the screen flicker to life, spitting out walls of text she followed with bespectacled beady eyes shining in the dimly lit room.
WIP2: This was several years ago, before the gallery closed, the coincident scandal, and Cecile’s death. The town was quiet then, and Marie-Claude was unknown to collectors, the same men and women who would now jealously guard acquisitions that could be traced, fraudulently or otherwise, as having their provenance at the Gallery at X.
Your opening line tells me a lot about events that follow "this" and that escalate: a gallery closes, a scandal happens and Cecile dies. So, we know that the town was quite, and Marie-Claude was then unknown, and I wonder would she be known by now? Can she follow up on fraudulent acquisitions, what is her relationship with the gallery. I want to find out more!
WIP1: Herb’s Tavern burnt down at 3:43 a.m. on a Thursday, taking with it several historical buildings, Crystal Seas Kayaking, and a Sotheby’s outpost.
As a reader I am getting a lot of information about the neighbourhood of Herb's Tavern, and the feeling that it might be a newscast, with a feel of objectivity.
'17th Street, San Fransisco, August of 1974, well past midnight but sleepless, as it always was, as she would always remember it being; lightbulbs hot and buzzing, cinemas tungsten-bright through their double doors, streaks of glaring florescence reflected in the waxed surfaces of Buicks and Chevrolets, music—jazz, fusion, soul, rock—here and there and then gone as she passed and left behind bar, strip club, busker; the blur of denim and polyester in unison with limbs, with feet, with bodies; there was movement, inevitable, permanent movement in the insomniac warren of a city, and she would always remember it so.'
I didn't realize my first sentence was so long until now!
Thanks, now I'm experiencing like twelve different moods and it's pretty cool. Honestly though, I was there. Am there. It's early morning here in a sleepy little backwater. I love writing when the writer tells you, "Ima put some place so stay tuned..." and then pulls it off.
Is one the full spread of cars back when cars were cars and now instead, right by the open road, they're parked ass-up in a sunblasted field next to a chrome diner? With neon.
"The scratch at the back of his throat and the accompanying sense that he was only seconds from throwing up were still with Mike when he turned into his driveway."
Here's the opening paragraphs of my forthcoming book, Book No. 3 for me, to be published by Spiegel and Grau. (I'm about 300 pages into this book.)
"Let’s be honest. You never cared about the war in Afghanistan. It’s the longest war in U.S. history because we chose to ignore it even as we fought it. Focused on a second front in Iraq, with the hubris to believe we could whip Al Qaeda and then establish modern and democratic rule in an Afghanistan that for decades had not known modernity or democracy, we elected four U.S. presidents who offered vague notions for how to win there and quickly grew bored by their plans anyway. I could recommend three books right now that show the lies lies lies we told ourselves, especially when our apathy about Afghanistan briefly pained us, the lies not just among civilians but elected leaders and not just among elected leaders but military ones, too. But you wouldn’t read those books. It’s all too shameful now. We’re all too chickenshit."
"I was. 9/11 was the defining event of my youth and unlike some of my high school buddies, and my former brother in law, I never enlisted. I was too scared. I comforted myself with the idea that I would write about the Afghan war. In the 25 years since its debut, I have, and the soldiers and vets I’ve spoken with across that span have talked about their own fear, too, and not just that of battle but something more insidious. They knew the war wasn’t winnable, at least not the way we fought it. Undermanned, poorly equipped, with tours too brief to have a lasting impact and that impact itself never defined. “If we fought World War II the way we fight in Afghanistan, we’d all be speaking German and Japanese now,” an Army captain and intelligence officer once told me."
"No love, however brief, is ever wasted"
someone please correct me if you actually know the origin, but i'm afraid this is just a random genious on the internet. because anywhere i've come across it, was just in different posts. but daaamn if it doesn't resonate and make me wish i came up with that, because i feel it in my soul 🫀
‘Tis Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all'
I believe both are true...a kind gesture, the smile of a strangers recognition - I see you you - and then there are no strangers anymore. The weird little dog, you call the number on the tag. You make a friend while you wait.
what i find the most heartwarming about this, is the aspect of loving things that you do. that even if you have once had a hobby (say play a guitar) but you don't anymore, that time is not wasted. somewhere, sometime it'll come back and you'll use what you remember of it...or you won't and you'll have fond memories and experiences from those times...it's forever in us
Ever glimpse a face that's looking back at you with an offer to smile that made you smile; a landscape sudden that sears itself on you not to ever be forgotten. A sound, an aroma, a shiver. '...it's forever in us." I like that. It's memory. And I carry it with me.
Our potential driveway was short and slightly steeped, off a windy two-lane road.
Context:
Our potential driveway was short and slightly steeped, off a windy two-lane road. The pavement was black but with no consequence; it was February in Massachusetts, and a translucent sleet-slop clung to the Volvo’s worn treads. I craned my head, gripping the handle on the passenger door until my knuckles went white, and bit my tongue. Patrick would advance a bit, then slide backward. Our real estate agent stopped her black Lincoln SUV short of the entrance, a line of cars slowly building behind her.
"Is pussy a bad word?" my children ask from the backseat of my car (the only place they are allowed to curse).
Bless you, safe to cuss!
My opening line. Fenton had come to hate "Lifesaver." What follows is: Not the melody, which was his, or the arrangement, or that it was overplayed, but the lyrics which his older brother Gabe had insisted upon. The fact that Gabe had been a fair distance from the South Saskatchewan River that day, didn’t seem to matter, nor that it was Fenton’s experience on which he had based the lyrics.
I'm a little late, but here's the opening line of my latest short story:
The cursor on the screen blinked at him mockingly.
And the paragraph:
The cursor on the screen blinked at him mockingly. There was so very little to say after the failure of his most recent experiment. It wasn’t even worth reporting. But ideas had been aggressively marketed, interest had been piqued, and money had been granted, so very much money. Now Arthur had to come up with some way to say that the failure had been a success, that the dreams peddled yielded results commensurate with the value invested. But it hadn’t, and the more he let the situation marinate in his mind, the more the reality of his dilemma became clear. As he thought about the promises preemptively made, he wondered, did we commit fraud?
Your opening promises tension. Between what follows on the computer and him, whom we find out later is Arthur, and who is becoming increasingly worried, until we find out in the end that there could be legal implications. I like your use of marinate in his mind...
Astrid, I appreciate your feedback!
Azra hit enter and watched the screen flicker to life, spitting out walls of text she followed with bespectacled beady eyes shining in the dimly lit room.
WIP2: This was several years ago, before the gallery closed, the coincident scandal, and Cecile’s death. The town was quiet then, and Marie-Claude was unknown to collectors, the same men and women who would now jealously guard acquisitions that could be traced, fraudulently or otherwise, as having their provenance at the Gallery at X.
Your opening line tells me a lot about events that follow "this" and that escalate: a gallery closes, a scandal happens and Cecile dies. So, we know that the town was quite, and Marie-Claude was then unknown, and I wonder would she be known by now? Can she follow up on fraudulent acquisitions, what is her relationship with the gallery. I want to find out more!
WIP1: Herb’s Tavern burnt down at 3:43 a.m. on a Thursday, taking with it several historical buildings, Crystal Seas Kayaking, and a Sotheby’s outpost.
As a reader I am getting a lot of information about the neighbourhood of Herb's Tavern, and the feeling that it might be a newscast, with a feel of objectivity.
'17th Street, San Fransisco, August of 1974, well past midnight but sleepless, as it always was, as she would always remember it being; lightbulbs hot and buzzing, cinemas tungsten-bright through their double doors, streaks of glaring florescence reflected in the waxed surfaces of Buicks and Chevrolets, music—jazz, fusion, soul, rock—here and there and then gone as she passed and left behind bar, strip club, busker; the blur of denim and polyester in unison with limbs, with feet, with bodies; there was movement, inevitable, permanent movement in the insomniac warren of a city, and she would always remember it so.'
I didn't realize my first sentence was so long until now!
Thank you!
It's so musical! Whitman-esque.
Thanks, now I'm experiencing like twelve different moods and it's pretty cool. Honestly though, I was there. Am there. It's early morning here in a sleepy little backwater. I love writing when the writer tells you, "Ima put some place so stay tuned..." and then pulls it off.
Thank you! I am very inspired by John Steinbeck and Thomas Farber's forward to Nacio Jan Brown's photography book 'Rag Theater.'
I blinked, and Texas sprang to life with the crazy-fake proportions of a pop-up book.
I love this opening. Also wondering if "crazy-fake" is needed; if there's a more seeable adjective.
Is one the full spread of cars back when cars were cars and now instead, right by the open road, they're parked ass-up in a sunblasted field next to a chrome diner? With neon.
Haha. No. It was all normal stuff circa 1973, from the POV of 10 year old English kid.
A Brit in Texas! No wonder. But what wonder :) I'm glad for you, and I blink too.
What comes next in the story?
Slow unfolding tragedy. Then back to England.
You had me at tragedy. Traumatic's not always a crash.
And a third novel...
Mika usually found debt repayment schedules as calming as yoga, but not today, when Sheldrake was due to report in.
A second novel WIP opens with:
"The scratch at the back of his throat and the accompanying sense that he was only seconds from throwing up were still with Mike when he turned into his driveway."
Here's the opening paragraphs of my forthcoming book, Book No. 3 for me, to be published by Spiegel and Grau. (I'm about 300 pages into this book.)
"Let’s be honest. You never cared about the war in Afghanistan. It’s the longest war in U.S. history because we chose to ignore it even as we fought it. Focused on a second front in Iraq, with the hubris to believe we could whip Al Qaeda and then establish modern and democratic rule in an Afghanistan that for decades had not known modernity or democracy, we elected four U.S. presidents who offered vague notions for how to win there and quickly grew bored by their plans anyway. I could recommend three books right now that show the lies lies lies we told ourselves, especially when our apathy about Afghanistan briefly pained us, the lies not just among civilians but elected leaders and not just among elected leaders but military ones, too. But you wouldn’t read those books. It’s all too shameful now. We’re all too chickenshit."
"I was. 9/11 was the defining event of my youth and unlike some of my high school buddies, and my former brother in law, I never enlisted. I was too scared. I comforted myself with the idea that I would write about the Afghan war. In the 25 years since its debut, I have, and the soldiers and vets I’ve spoken with across that span have talked about their own fear, too, and not just that of battle but something more insidious. They knew the war wasn’t winnable, at least not the way we fought it. Undermanned, poorly equipped, with tours too brief to have a lasting impact and that impact itself never defined. “If we fought World War II the way we fight in Afghanistan, we’d all be speaking German and Japanese now,” an Army captain and intelligence officer once told me."
A groan came from the darkness around him, the high-pitched, pressured version that Ellis thought of as the mountain in distress.
You guys are fabulous (that's not an opening line, that's just the damn truth)
Rain falls from a moonlit sky - who's beatin' the hell outta who - and don't tell me the devil's behind it, had enough of him.