Which opener grabs you the most? Women's fiction.
Posted: June 12th, 2010, 3:32 pm
Hello! I've written two opening scenes for my women's fiction novel "The Gravity of San Miguel." It's about a Seattle news reporter who witnesses tragedy on the job, and decides to completely change her life by moving to Central Mexico. I'm just curious which scene opener grabs you more. The first one cuts to the chase, the second one has a bit more description. Thanks for your feedback! It's greatly appreciated.
EXCERPT ONE, CHAPTER ONE:
Both the water and the sky were the color of gunmetal the day a news story cracked my soul. It should have been a simple day, an easy story, yet another standoff on the outskirts of Seattle. But this time, it was different. I would be forever changed.
I guided my KRKO newscar through downtown buildings made of cold steel, out onto the I-90 Bridge where the fog hung low and thick. I concentrated on driving with all my strength, keeping the yellow dots in view as the freeway slithered away. The changing leaves of deciduous trees burned red and orange on the hilltops of Mercer Island, breaking through gray like fire.
Some crazy guy with a gun was holding his stepkids hostage in the small city of North Bend, where mist strangled the peak of Mount Si. Yellow crime scene tape shimmered in the rain, keeping reporters and pedestrians at bay. My truck’s tires crunched on gravel as I parked near a herd of newscars, their antennas probing the sky.
“What’s the latest?” I asked a brunette television reporter named Keisha Goldstein. She looked like a ghost living in the shadow of her raincoat’s hood, her face white and floating. Her lips emerged to shape words, and I noticed they were red, like blood.
EXCERPT TWO, CHAPTER ONE
It’s easy to get lost when you don’t know which way is up or down, when both the water and the sky are the color of gunmetal. I guided my KRKO Ford Escape through the thick fog of downtown Seattle on my way to breaking news, cutting corners near buildings made of cold steel. The autumn air was damp and heavy, ominous against my windshield.
The piece of paper lay crumpled on the passenger seat beside me, directions to the scene. Small children held hostage in North Bend, their stepfather the suspected captor. I felt a rush of anxiety and my heart beat a little faster in my chest, unsure of what I would find.
The fog grew into a living thing over the floating I-90 bridge; it hung low and thick. I concentrated on driving, keeping the yellow dots in view as the freeway slithered away. It was hard to shake the feeling of loss as summer melted into autumn. The changing leaves of deciduous trees burned orange and yellow on the hilltops of Mercer Island, breaking through gray like fire.
The fog scattered and turned to rain near the exit to North Bend, 45 minutes outside of Seattle. I exited I-90, the GPS unit guiding my way to an upscale neighborhood near the hulking Mount Si. Tendrils of mist strangled the mountain’s peak; the jagged tops of evergreens cut the pale sky. I drove slowly toward the address, and saw yellow crime scene tape shimmering in the rain. It was strung through trees and light posts, keeping reporters and pedestrians at bay.
EXCERPT ONE, CHAPTER ONE:
Both the water and the sky were the color of gunmetal the day a news story cracked my soul. It should have been a simple day, an easy story, yet another standoff on the outskirts of Seattle. But this time, it was different. I would be forever changed.
I guided my KRKO newscar through downtown buildings made of cold steel, out onto the I-90 Bridge where the fog hung low and thick. I concentrated on driving with all my strength, keeping the yellow dots in view as the freeway slithered away. The changing leaves of deciduous trees burned red and orange on the hilltops of Mercer Island, breaking through gray like fire.
Some crazy guy with a gun was holding his stepkids hostage in the small city of North Bend, where mist strangled the peak of Mount Si. Yellow crime scene tape shimmered in the rain, keeping reporters and pedestrians at bay. My truck’s tires crunched on gravel as I parked near a herd of newscars, their antennas probing the sky.
“What’s the latest?” I asked a brunette television reporter named Keisha Goldstein. She looked like a ghost living in the shadow of her raincoat’s hood, her face white and floating. Her lips emerged to shape words, and I noticed they were red, like blood.
EXCERPT TWO, CHAPTER ONE
It’s easy to get lost when you don’t know which way is up or down, when both the water and the sky are the color of gunmetal. I guided my KRKO Ford Escape through the thick fog of downtown Seattle on my way to breaking news, cutting corners near buildings made of cold steel. The autumn air was damp and heavy, ominous against my windshield.
The piece of paper lay crumpled on the passenger seat beside me, directions to the scene. Small children held hostage in North Bend, their stepfather the suspected captor. I felt a rush of anxiety and my heart beat a little faster in my chest, unsure of what I would find.
The fog grew into a living thing over the floating I-90 bridge; it hung low and thick. I concentrated on driving, keeping the yellow dots in view as the freeway slithered away. It was hard to shake the feeling of loss as summer melted into autumn. The changing leaves of deciduous trees burned orange and yellow on the hilltops of Mercer Island, breaking through gray like fire.
The fog scattered and turned to rain near the exit to North Bend, 45 minutes outside of Seattle. I exited I-90, the GPS unit guiding my way to an upscale neighborhood near the hulking Mount Si. Tendrils of mist strangled the mountain’s peak; the jagged tops of evergreens cut the pale sky. I drove slowly toward the address, and saw yellow crime scene tape shimmering in the rain. It was strung through trees and light posts, keeping reporters and pedestrians at bay.