The first page of your book is a door. Readers will either step through or close it forever. To make them cross the threshold, give them three things in the opening: a question they urgently want answered, a promise that the answer will surprise them, and the certainty that the journey will move fast.
1. Open with motion, not exposition.
Instead of describing the village, show the baker hurling a loaf at a soldier and sprinting into the fog. Motion creates instant film in the mind; exposition creates homework.
2. Anchor emotion before geography.
Tell us the protagonist’s pulse is jammed in her ears; then mention the cliff behind her. When readers feel first, they will follow you anywhere.
3. Plant the story question on page one.
A single line—“The letter arrived after the funeral, addressed to a man who was supposed to be dead”—does more world-building than three paragraphs of back-story. The question “Why isn’t he dead?” propels the reader onward.
4. Make every sentence do two jobs.
“The sea was black at dawn, the color of the priest’s robe the morning he promised I’d never leave the island.” In twenty words you give setting, atmosphere, and a character grudge. Efficiency feels like velocity.
5. Withhold more than you display.
Name the fear, not the childhood incident that caused it. Hint at the war, but not which side she’s on. Curiosity is capital; spend it carefully.
6. Use the chapter break as a slingshot.
End the first chapter with a pivot, not a pause. The discovered letter is blank. The soldier’s loaf explodes. The boat drifts toward the edge of the map. Slam the door so the reader must open the next one.
Beginning a book is not about explaining where we are; it is about making the reader homesick for where we’re going before they’ve even left. Write the moment that makes them exclaim, “I can’t stay here—I have to know,” and they’ll run the rest of the story for you.
