I’m in the process of amending my WIP with a view to submitting it to literary agents later in the year in the hope of attracting offers of representation. As I discussed in my previous post, I need to catch and keep their attention (oftentimes, the attention of whichever of their junior associates is tasked with winnowing out the wheat from the chaff) in the first few words, if not paragraphs, if I want to make it out of the slush pile. Therein lies the dilemma.

I wrote the opening for the novel over twenty-five years ago, almost word-for-word as it came to me during an acting workshop. We’d been tasked with listening to an instrumental piece by Enya, the Irish musician, and then to describe to another member of the Company whatever the music had inspired in us. I took so long to relate the image I had of a man hearing an unknown song sung by an unseen singer at sunset on a deserted beach on the island of Islay, that my partner in the exercise had no time to share his own thoughts. When I finished, Mark was quite silent. I feared that he was annoyed that I’d deprived him of the chance to share what he’d found in the music; he responded that he had been so caught up in my story that he’d quite forgotten he was supposed to take a turn himself.

So, a promising opening? I certainly hoped so, but when I submitted the same first chapter to my colleagues on the Editorial Board for the anthology we were tasked with publishing for our MA cohort’s first year project, the response was less than enthusiastic. “Perhaps you could re-work it?” was one comment; “I hoped you’d submit one of your other pieces” was another. In the end, they accepted the opening chapter of what would become my dissertation, and I was left wondering whether the story which had seemingly enchanted Mark fifteen years before would have the same effect if I tried to pitch it in the twenty-first century.

We’re advised to enter the story as late as possible – had I been premature in deciding where my story should begin? Was there another place where I could better capture the reader’s attention, something which would introduce a sense of jeopardy more quickly, to get the reader to empathise with my protagonist more easily, to persuade them to read past the opening paragraph, turn the page, buy the book?

There is a place where this opportunity presents itself, not so very much later in the story than my original opening. It’s the start of chapter two in my original draft; some of the omitted content from chapter one can be included later in this chapter if I decide to make this my ‘Call me Ishmael’ moment instead. I’ve included both opening paragraphs below – which one would be more likely to keep you reading?

This is the original opening, which I related to Mark during the drama workshop:

There is a place, on the farthest shore of the island of Islay, where you can sit and watch the sun dip below the surface of the waters, with nothing between yourself and the New World but the golden pathway she leaves behind, inviting you to follow her. There, if you wish, you can imagine yourself alone in the universe, for not even the gulls fly near that shore. There, if you desire, you can believe that perfection still exists in a corrupted world. There I came once, to sit and watch, and hear what stories the wind might bring me; once upon a time, in the past, which is this country.

This is the alternative opening, which takes place nearly twenty-four hours later:

“You cannot succeed alone; only when you finally find her again will this end for you.” The image of a woman with dark red hair and sea-green eyes, watching me sadly; the searing white light before the darkness…

I came awake all at once, cold sweat running down my forehead and between my shoulder-blades. The television set was still switched on in the corner of the room; I didn’t remember sitting down in the armchair, let alone falling asleep, but it must only have happened a few minutes earlier, for Mrs Cowan’s best china teacup sat on a coaster near my right elbow, three-quarters full of warm tea. The headache which had afflicted me since the previous evening was still there, a faint throbbing at the base of my skull, persistent but not uncomfortable; certainly not requiring the two paracetamol tablets which nestled side by side in the saucer. On the other hand, my heart was racing, and my breathing had grown shallow; memories of the emergency room at the hospital on Rhodes resurfaced from wherever they had been buried for the past four years, to be quickly replaced by the sounds and smells of Cairo and Gizeh, followed by the sensation of Carolyn squeezing my hand as she sat at my bedside. Taking a deep breath, terrified at the thought of what the final images in the sequence might be, I willed the memories away; the thudding in my chest quietened and slowed, I closed my eyes once more and relaxed back into the embrace of the overstuffed leather armchair.

Which one would be more likely to induce you to keep reading, and why? Which gate would you be prepared to open and follow me through?