Re: Catching Up Part II
Continuing the discussion from <a href="http://p197.ezboard.com/fabsolutewritefrm3.showMessageRange?topicID=257.topic&start=1941&stop=1960" target="_new">earlier in this thread</a>:
The first two pages of
The Street Lawyer, by John Grisham:
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One
The man with the rubber boots stepped into the elevator behind me, but I didn't see him at first. I smelled him though -- the pungent odor of smoke and cheap wine and life on the street without soap. We were alone as we moved upward, and when I finally glanced over I saw the boots, black and dirty and much too large. A frayed and tattered trench coat fell to his knees. Under it, layers of foul clothing bunched around his mid-section, so that he appeared stocky, almost fat. But it wasn't from being well fed; in the wintertime in D.C., the street people wear everything they own, or so it seems.
He was black and aging -- his beard and hair were half-gray and hadn't been washed or cut in years. He looked straight ahead through thick sunglasses, thoroughly ignoring me, and making me wonder for a second why, exactly, I was inspecting him.
He didn't belong. It was not his building, not his elevator, into a place he could afford. The lawyers on all eight floors worked for my firm at hourly rates that still seemed obscene to me even after seven years.
Just another street bum in from the cold. Happened all the time in downtown Washington. But we had security guards to deal with the riffraff.
We stopped at six, and I noticed for the first time that he had not pushed a button, had not selected a floor. He was following me. I made a quick exit, and as I stepped into the splendid marble foyer of Drake & Sweeney I glanced over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing in the elevator, looking at nothing, still ignoring me.
Madam Devier, one of your very resilient receptionists, greeted me with her typical look of disdain. "Watch the elevator," I said.
"Why?"
"Street bum. You may want to call security."
"Those people," she said in her affected French accent.
"Get some disinfectant too."
I walked away, wrestling my overcoat off my shoulders, forgetting the man with the rubber boots. I had nonstop meetings throughout the afternoon, important conferences with important people. I turned the corner and was about to say something to Polly, my secretary, when I heard the first shot.
Madam Devier was standing behind her desk, petrified, staring into the barrel of an awfully long handgun held by our pal the street bum. Since I was the first one to come to her aid, he politely aimed it at me, and I too became rigid.
"Don't shoot," I said, hands in the air. I'd seen enough movies to know precisely what to do.
"Shut up," he mumbled, with a great deal of composure.
There were voices in the hallway behind me. Someone yelled,
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Chapters are numbered in words, no epigrams, no chapter titles.
The man with the rubber boots stepped into the elevator behind me, but I didn't see him at first.
Two characters in the first sentence: the man with the rubber boots, and "me," the narrator. Setting: an elevator. Description: rubber boots. Off and running in sentence one. First person POV.
I smelled him though -- the pungent odor of smoke and cheap wine and life on the street without soap.
More description, both of the man in the rubber boots (someone who smells like a street person) and the narrator (someone who notices).
We were alone as we moved upward, and when I finally glanced over I saw the boots, black and dirty and much too large.
More description. This will be an important character. As the elevator moves upward through the building, the narrator's eyes move upward on the street person. This is the first time we see the boots, even though they were mentioned in the first sentence.
A frayed and tattered trench coat fell to his knees.
Up the street person's body. Building a picture. Still early enough in that if the reader has any misapprehensions about what the character looks like, they can be easily corrected.
Under it, layers of foul clothing bunched around his mid-section, so that he appeared stocky, almost fat.
Is 'almost fat' a mistake here? The use of the word 'almost' can be a sign of lazy writing: e.g. He looked almost happy. That's asking the reader to do the writer's job of finding the right word. But this, here, is using the phrase 'almost fat' to define the earlier term 'stocky.' This is clarification, not sloppiness.
But it wasn't from being well fed; in the wintertime in D.C., the street people wear everything they own, or so it seems.
Giving the location (Washington D.C.) and the season (winter). We're still in the elevator, but the outside world is being defined.
He was black and aging -- his beard and hair were half-gray and hadn't been washed or cut in years.
Black and aging. Notice the parallelism with the boots: black and dirty. We've gotten all the way up to the man's face. Nice progression, and mild suspense as we're wondering and being told what the man looks like. This falls in line with the principle that we answer the readers' questions a moment before they ask them.
He looked straight ahead through thick sunglasses, thoroughly ignoring me, and making me wonder for a second why, exactly, I was inspecting him.
Back to the narrator's character. Also a bit of mystery about the boot-man. Sunglasses inside an elevator? And his eyes are concealed.
Summarizing the previous paragraph, and bringing the point home for the deaf old lady in the back row.
It was not his building, not his elevator, into a place he could afford.
More countersinking.
The lawyers on all eight floors worked for my firm at hourly rates that still seemed obscene to me even after seven years.
Okay, we're going into a law office. More on the narrator's character -- he's making a lot of money, and he's uncomfortable with that. He's been there a while -- seven years. We presume that the narrator is a lawyer. Ambiguous whether he owns the firm.
Just another street bum in from the cold.
Reinforcing that it's winter. Reinforcing that this is a street person. Bringing up the possibility that this isn't the first time it's happened. "Just another..."?
Happened all the time in downtown Washington.
Answering the question. Happens all the time. Momentarily unpleasant, but nothing to remark about. But our narrator
is remarking about it, so ... we're expecting something odd to happen. New source of suspense.
But we had security guards to deal with the riffraff.
More on the building, more on the characters, more on how this is a known problem with a known solution, but ... the hint that this time security guards won't work.
We stopped at six, and I noticed for the first time that he had not pushed a button, had not selected a floor.
Location is specified, and another odd detail is supplied.
Uh-oh. Very simple declarative sentence. Fast, short, lots of impact.
I made a quick exit, and as I stepped into the splendid marble foyer of Drake & Sweeney I glanced over my shoulder just long enough to see him standing in the elevator, looking at nothing, still ignoring me.
The longest sentence we've seen so far -- a bit of a rest for the reader after the shorter, choppier, more suspenseful opening bits. We're told the name of the law firm, and given more on the relationship that's been growing between tthese two people. (Still don't know if the narrator is male or female.)
Madam Devier, one of your very resilient receptionists, greeted me with her typical look of disdain.
A third character, with a bit of characterization.
"Watch the elevator," I said.
"Why?"
"Street bum. You may want to call security."
Dialog, power relationship, and still business as usual.
"Those people," she said in her affected French accent.
Characterization.
"Get some disinfectant too."
Characterization of the narrator.
I walked away, wrestling my overcoat off my shoulders, forgetting the man with the rubber boots.
Suspense builds, along with tiny action detail.
I had nonstop meetings throughout the afternoon, important conferences with important people.
Important people, as opposed to the unimportant bum. Yet the bum has had a lot of ink so far, and the important people have had none. The bum is important, and will be involved in nonstop meetings, betcha.
I turned the corner and was about to say something to Polly, my secretary, when I heard the first shot.
Woo hoo! The day has just gotten weird. The first shot implies a second shot. We've also met another character, Polly, and gotten a bit more of a hint about the narrator.
Madam Devier was standing behind her desk, petrified, staring into the barrel of an awfully long handgun held by our pal the street bum.
I wonder how he saw that? He's turned the corner, after all. His heading back isn't described; it's not important right now. We've gotten back to the main character (the bum). We've introduced something that makes the bum important. "God made men; Colonel Colt made them equal."
Since I was the first one to come to her aid, he politely aimed it at me, and I too became rigid.
Our narrator is either brave or foolish.
"Don't shoot," I said, hands in the air.
Dialog and action.
I'd seen enough movies to know precisely what to do.
Sense of unreality. Comparing this to a movie. (It would have been an error for the author to have said "I've read enough books." That would remind the reader that this is just a novel.)
"Shut up," he mumbled, with a great deal of composure.
I'll let him get away with using a 'said' word. More characterization.
There were voices in the hallway behind me. Someone yelled,
'There were' is a weak opening. This will contrast with the very strong bit with the handgun we just saw, and give the reader a break. 'Someone' is also indistinct.
Now... we're at the end of page two.
Show of hands, how many want to know what happens next?