In my last post, we talked about the
importance of creating a setting filled with detail in order for the reader to
visualize a time and place. To accomplish this a writer must be an observer of
life, and in my opinion the best writing draws the reader in and creates a
sense of reality. In other words, the reader is there in the setting with the
characters and becomes intimately involved in the story. That’s what the writer
works for—a connection that keeps the reader turning the pages. Some writers
draw the reader in through dialogue between characters; others use descriptive
language. But no matter what the style, there has to be a hook! If you don’t
engage the reader in the first chapter there’s a strong possibility that you’ve
lost your audience.
One way to hook your reader is by using
a little foreshadowing at the very beginning. This gives a hint about things to
come. Yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to do this in the first chapter. I’ll give
you an example. In my book Murder at Canterbury Faire: A Dr. Emily
Goldman Mystery, Chapter I
begins with a dream sequence that predicts (foreshadows) events to come. It
doesn’t matter that the reader knows from the beginning that a murder will
occur and can guess the name of the victim. Of course, the reader knows from
the title that someone will die, but the dream sets the stage for events to
unfold. To illustrate my point, I’m attaching Chapter I. I hope you enjoy it. By the way, it’s available at Amazon and would be something to
consider for holiday giving.
Please
remember this is copyrighted material and may not be reproduced without
permission.
When April with
his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of
March has pierced unto the root
And bathed each
vein with liquor that has power
To generate
therein and sire the flower…
****
THE PROLOGUE OF
THE CANTERBURY TALES
BY
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Chapter
I
At first all she could hear was the jingling of the tiny silver bells
adorning the bridles of the horses; but as her eyes adjusted to the light, she
could see the long line of pilgrims dressed in garments of medieval finery as
they emerged from the mist. Their faces, cloaked against the early morning
chill, were hidden as the fog swirled around the legs of the horses and the
bodies of the riders. As the procession became clearer in the unearthly light,
she recognized the host, Harry Bailey, as he led the travelers on their journey
toward Canterbury Cathedral and the tomb of the blessed Saint Thomas à Becket.
It seemed that he was about to speak, to perhaps encourage them to begin to
tell their tales; but suddenly his face contorted in a hideous grimace and,
clutching his chest, he fell from his horse onto the soft wet ground. Through
the mist she could see him lying on his back, his eyes staring heavenward; and
she began to scream.
She was breathing rapidly, and her heart was thumping in her chest as
she threw off the bedcovers. Slowly she
sat up on the edge of the bed searching for her slippers on the floor where she
always placed them. “What a horrible dream,” she said aloud, rubbing her eyes.
She had been jolted awake, either from the shock of the nightmare or from the
muffled sound she had made in her sleep as she saw the body hit the ground. The
dream had been vivid with every detail so realistic she was still shaken. She
suddenly realized the terrifying image she could see so clearly in her mind
bore a marked resemblance to the new head of the English Department, Dr. Basil
Bowen. She glanced at her alarm clock on her bedside table and had another
shock.
Dr. Emily Goldman, Chaucer scholar and professor of English at Merryvale
College, had actually overslept! She was going to be late for her eight o’clock
class; and that was something that was unthinkable, something that had never
occurred in her long tenure at the college. Why had she indulged in that
additional glass of wine last night? She knew from experience that wine did not
agree with her in the evening, and yet she had been tempted to indulge in just
one more glass of a very nice Merlot.
Predictably she had awakened at 2:00 a.m. and had tossed and turned for
at least an hour, maybe more, before drifting back to what must have been an
uneasy sleep. When the dream jolted her
awake, she realized she had been hitting the snooze button on her alarm and now
she was running behind schedule. Totally disgusted with herself, her morning
routine turned upside down, she prepared for the day as rapidly as
possible.
“Maxwell of Dumfries, it seems to me you could at least bark when you
hear the alarm,” she chided her spoiled Scottie, known to one and all as Max.
His little black eyes looked up at her as if he was perfectly aware of
what she was talking about; he cocked his head to one side and gave a short
bark. “Too late now, little friend,” she said, as she reached down and
scratched his ears. Although she was in a rush, she made sure he had fresh
water, his morning snack, and that the doggie door was open so he could go in
and out to the back garden before she started to get ready for class. His short
legs were a blur as his stocky little body shot through the swinging door. I
must hurry, she fretted.
The lapse that accounted for her second glass of wine at the home of her
department head the previous evening, a rare indulgence, was understandable she
thought, as she selected an outfit for the day from her neatly arranged closet.
The faculty of the English Department had gathered to discuss preparations for
the annual Canterbury Faire, an event that had put Merryvale College on the map
and attracted a large crowd of enthusiastic spectators. Although planning for
the Faire had been the focus of the meeting, Dr. Goldman sensed she was not the
only one there who seemed to feel a bit uncomfortable in Dr. Bowen’s home and
that they were making very little headway in formulating plans for the yearly
event. There was an undercurrent of discontent in the department, and
momentarily a frown crossed her usually calm expression.
The faces of her dear colleagues did not radiate with their usual
enthusiasm for the Faire either, and she felt a palpable tension in the usually
genial atmosphere of the planning meeting. It would appear that the change in
leadership that had occurred with the retirement of Dr. Stewart Stevens and the
appointment of a new academic leader was still causing discontent in the
department. Such a pity, she thought, since through the years they had all
worked so happily together, but those happy days were in the past, not the present.
Unfortunately Dr. Bowen had ruffled more than a few feathers on his
arrival, and as a consequence no one seemed to be at ease with the new
department head. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the problem, but the
undercurrent of unhappiness and tension troubled her, and it may have been the
feeling that things were not as they should be, more than the indulgence in a
second glass of wine, which could account for her restless night.
Dr. Goldman’s beloved English Department was the focus of both her
personal and professional life, and there was very little that occurred in that
academic world that didn’t somehow come to her attention. As the meeting had
progressed on the previous evening, she slowly sipped her glass of wine hoping
to discover some way of diffusing the stress between the normally compatible
members who had met at Dr. Basil Bowen’s home. Perhaps a mistake had been made
in not holding more informal meetings from the beginning of the year when Dr.
Bowen first arrived, to get to know him better and to help him with his new
duties; or perhaps it would have made no difference at all, she thought. Now
all of the resentment that had built up during the first semester was coming
out in the open. The meeting to discuss the Faire was the first time he had
invited them to his house since he had taken over the department; and many felt
he lacked the social sense to realize that this in itself was a slight to the
faculty, just another example of his superior attitude.
As the meeting dragged on, Dr. Goldman, one of the chief organizers of
the Faire in the past, had eventually grown weary of the controversy and
suggested that they were all working at cross purposes since no one seemed to
be able to agree on much of anything this year. After all, it was an event that
had changed little over time, and all that was needed where planning was
concerned was the delegation of responsibilities. She had pointed out to Dr.
Bowen that the reenactment of Chaucer’s Prologue to the Canterbury Tales was in
no way an attempt to be a polished production.
The Faire had always gone smoothly and there was really no reason to
alter the plan that had been successful in previous years. Finally, weary of the endless discussion of
details, she had bid them goodnight and returned to her home, still unsure what
to do about the unease that had enveloped her of late and hoping she was wrong
about her sense of impending trouble.
Dr. Emily Goldman, or simply Dr. Emily to her close associates, was a
transplant to the Deep South; and she never failed to recognize the good
fortune that had brought her to such an idyllic spot in the central part of
Alabama. The small campus, shaded with huge old oaks and brick lined walks, may
have been off the beaten path; but that had been one of the main attractions
for her after growing up in the cold climate of Illinois and her years as a
student and lecturer at the University of Chicago. After an initial period of
culture shock, she had never regretted her decision to flee the brutal climate
of the city that had been her birthplace and where she had made a name for
herself as one of the finest Chaucer scholars and translators of Anglo-Saxon in
the country.
She had been well liked and left behind many friends in Chicago and a smaller
more intimate social circle, most in some way connected to the University. Her
life was full and rich, but it wasn’t enough after a failed relationship with a
colleague in her department. The man had been a great disappointment to her;
and coming so soon after the loss of both of her parents to illness and old
age, she decided her best option was to make a fresh start somewhere else,
somewhere far away from everything that reminded her of the unhappiness of the
last few years. A change of scene was what she had needed, and at the time she
thought it would only be for a short while, just until she had time to think
and reflect. Her colleagues in the Department of Anglo-Saxon and Medieval
Literature, awed by her brilliance, had always assumed she would
move on at some time, probably to Yale or
Harvard or one of the other Ivy League schools; so there was a sense of shock
and surprise when she announced she planned to accept a position at a small
Southern college that none of them had ever heard of, a college that was
located in what they considered the hinterland.
No doubt she was suffering from some sort of crisis that she would soon
be able to overcome: depression or a failed love affair, they speculated, a
temporary case of nerves. Dr. Emily wasn’t one to share her emotional life with
her acquaintances, so most of her friends never realized her motivation for
leaving. Only a few of her intimate friends knew about the emotional toll she
had gone through. They had briefly tried to talk her out of it, of course, but
she had persisted in her intention to leave what most scholars would consider a
prime position in the academic world and settled into the small Victorian house
at the edge of the Merryvale campus and had happily remained there for almost twenty-five
years
On this early spring morning, although running behind schedule, she
dressed carefully in the classic clothes she favored: the tartan skirt worn
with her maroon cashmere sweater, the pearl necklace that had belonged to her
mother, her sensible low-heeled pumps. April in Alabama was like every other
month except July and August, unpredictable; and there was still a chill in the
air. The light sweater would be perfect. Her short white curls caressed the
edge of the black velvet beret that had become her trademark. She was rarely
seen without it when the weather was cool.
She had an established routine of dressing each morning; but running
late was certainly not part of her plan, and she felt rushed. Grabbing her briefcase, she locked the front
door and headed across campus still annoyed with herself for sleeping through
her alarm, still feeling out of sorts, and wondering what her students would
think if she was not there waiting for them at the beginning of class.
Slightly out of breath, she rushed up the steps of Julia Tutwiler Hall,
the venerable building that housed the English Department, becoming even more
put out with herself with every minute that ticked by. She thought she might
actually be able to hear them as the minute hand moved closer to the eight
o’clock hour on her wrist watch, the one her dear mother had given her for a
graduation present from undergraduate school all those years ago. Checking for
a final time, she was relieved to see that she was going to make it at
precisely eight and avoid being late—the UNTHINKABLE!
Suddenly she realized she would be so winded from her brisk walk and the
climb to the second floor of the building that she would find it difficult to
start the class with her usual obscure line from a long forgotten Anglo-Saxon
narrative. Her mind was a blank—she couldn’t think of a single quote! Her round
cheeks were bright pink as she entered the classroom, and she noted unhappily
that she was indeed the last one to enter the room.
The clock could be heard striking the hour from the tower on the Quad.
Her students’ upturned faces, many barely awake, but still looking forward to
her lecture, looked at her expectantly. Dr. Goldman’s class on Chaucer was one
of the most popular courses in the department.
“Make no comments on my obvious tardiness! Let us take a moment to
reflect in silence on the memory of Dr. Thomas Underwood of the University of
Chicago, Professor Emeritus, on the anniversary of his death,” she gasped.
Turning her back abruptly, she picked up a dry-erase marker and wrote Dr.
Underwood’s name on the board, followed by a formidable list of academic
credentials.
Looking at the class with a critical eye, she spoke with authority.
“Will you please stand in honor of Dr. Underwood?” It really wasn’t a
request—more like an order.
Amazingly, the entire group of English majors stood in silence; some
even bowed their heads, although they had no idea who on earth Dr. Thomas
Underwood could possibly be. Those who had not assumed a prayerful position in
observance of this mysterious man shifted a little so they could catch each
other’s eyes. A few smiles were exchanged between the students who treasured
Dr. Goldman’s eccentricities. If nothing else, she kept them guessing.
After a prolonged moment of silence in which Dr. Emily was able to catch
her breath and organize her thoughts, she felt she could go on with the lecture
for the day.
“Let us begin with The Prologue of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey
Chaucer,” she trilled in her high melodic voice, and she was back in her
element, all troubles of the previous night forgotten, and all thoughts of the
upcoming Canterbury Faire put out of her mind. She was back in the more
romantic past where most of her waking hours were normally spent. Ah, academia!
