1. First Sight
My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt--sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than on any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That
Hi ho and away we go!
1. First Sight
A book with chapters, and the chapters have titles. We're going to be introduced to something new, here. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you see the word-cluster "first sight"? Very likely "love at first sight." So, looks like we're in a romance.
My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down.
First person. Past tense. We have two characters in the first two words: the narrator, and his/her mother. We have action going on: driving to the airport. Which suggests a place: we're in a car, on a road, going to said airport. We have some sensual detail, "with the windows rolled down." That's well-done. Twelve words.
It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue.
Answering the question, "where, exactly?" Expands on "the windows rolled down." Going to an airport suggests going on a trip, and a journey is a classic plot/metaphor for personal discovery. We're stressing light and perfection. Twelve more words.
I was wearing my favorite shirt--sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture.
Okay, our narrator is female. That "farewell gesture" suggests that a door is closing. The classic place to start a novel is when a door closes behind the protagonist, leaving him/her in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable place with no way back to the past status quo. Eighteen words.
My carry-on item was a parka.
Right. This is very well done. The contrast is that the weather where the protagonist is going will be cold, and the item is carry-on because she'll need that parka right away. A parka, with its concealing hood, long sleeves, and hip-length, contrasts strongly with that white sleeveless openwork shirt. Six words. Half the length of the shortest sentence so far. Good impact. The word in the position of power is "parka."
End of paragraph one.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds.
Answering the question "where is she going?" "Forks," as in forks in a road, implies choices. Keeping on with the journey. Contrasts the clouds with the brightness of Phoenix. Contrasts the size of the town with the size of Phoenix (no need to state that Phoenix is a large city; we all know that). The word-order choices are non-conventional, to put stress on 'exists' and 'clouds.' Alliteration on constant cover clouds. Twenty words, changing pace from the first paragraph. Slowing down the reader. Semi-infodump, but a well-done info dump.
It rains on this inconsequential town more than on any other place in the United States of America.
Not just a small town, an inconsequential town. A big word for such a small town. And a trivia fact. Is it true? Dunno, but the reader will go along with it because the author says so, and the forward motion of the story (and it is moving forward, the car is going to the airport, and the narrator is dreading the end of the journey, producing tension) induces believe. No one counts the rivets on a moving train. Spelling out the full name of the country, rather than just saying "America." What's up with that? Trying to put off the arrival? Eighteen words.
It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old.
Not just small, not just inconsequential, but filled with shade (and shade, we know, is another word for 'ghost'). That shade/those shades aren't just shady, they're gloomy. The shade isn't just gloomy, it's omnipresent. Wow. That's some industrial-strength shade there. Revealing the character's state of mind. More contrast with the bright sunny sky we saw in paragraph one. A place to be escaped from. A place that a mother would flee, taking a tiny baby with her. A place where you need a parka right away. Twenty-four words make this the longest sentence so far. Slowing down....
It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen.
Ah, so it isn't just a place she's heard of. She know for herself how dreary it is. Only compulsion would put her there. A mother fleeing alone with a child and that child compelled to spend a month every year suggests a divorced dad with court-ordered custody. The protagonist is apparently young, but still undefined. Right now, her mother, her protector, is sending her back despite her obvious reluctance. Yet more tension. Nineteen words.
That
The paragraph continues on the next page.
Let's see what words are in positions of power:
rolled down
cloudless blue
farewell gesture
parka
clouds
United States of America
old
fourteen
Of them all, "parka" is the strongest.
Four sentences in the first paragraph, at least five in the second.
I think it was nicely done, and reads aloud very well.
