Case Study: How to write a gripping first chapter
Looking at Michael J Sullivan's phenomenal 2016 release, Age of Myth
Recently, I posted a transcription and analysis of a book I admire, To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf1 and here’s another: Age of Myth by Michael J Sullivan.2
Raithe’s first impulse was to pray. Curse, cry, scream, pray—people did such things in their last minutes of life. But praying struck Raithe as absurd given that his problem was the angry god twenty feet away. Gods weren’t known for their tolerance, and this one appeared on the verge of striking them both dead. Neither Raithe nor his father had noticed the god approach. The waters of the nearby converging rivers made enough noise to mask an army’s passage. Raithe would have preferred an army.
Dressed in shimmering clothes, the god sat on a horse and was accompanied by two servants on foot. They were men, but dressed in the same remarkable clothing. All three silent, watching.
“Hey?” Raithe called to his father.
Herkimer knelt beside a deer, opening its stomach with his knife. Earlier, Raithe had landed a spear in the stag’s side, and he and his father had spent most of the morning chasing it. Herkimer had stripped off his wool leigh mor as well as his shirt because opening a deer’s belly was a bloody business. “What?” He looked up.
Raithe jerked his head toward the god, and his father’s sight tracked to the three figures. The old man’s eyes widened, and the color left his face.
I knew this was a bad idea, Raithe thought.
His father had seemed so confident, so sure that crossing the forbidden river would solve their problems. But he’d mentioned his certainty enough times to make Raithe wonder. Now the old man looked as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. Herkimer wiped his knife on the deer’s side before slipping it into his belt and getting up.
“Ah…” Raithe’s father began. Herkimer looked at the half-gutted deer, then back at the god. “It’s… okay.”
This was the total sum of his father’s wisdom, his grand defense for their high crime of trespassing on divine land. Raithe wasn’t sure if slaughtering one of the deities’ deer was also an offense but assumed it didn’t help their situation. And although Herkimer said it was okay, his face told a different story. Raithe’s stomach sank. He had no idea what he’d expected his father to say, but something more than that.
Not surprisingly, the god wasn’t appeased, and the three continued to stare in growing irritation.
They were on a tiny point of open meadowland where the Bern and the North Branch rivers met. A pine forest, thick and rich, grew a short distance up the slope behind them. Down at the point where the rivers converged lay a stony beach. Beneath a snow-gray blanket of sky, the river’s roar was the only sound. Just minutes earlier Raithe had seen the tiny field as a paradise. That was then.
First Firsts
Setting the Action
This beginning—really the first, arresting sentence—sold me on a five book series. In quick and fluid motions Michael J Sullivan expertly positions his reader in the middle of a conflict, their heart racing. Sentence one worries us: ‘impulse’ tells us there isn’t time to think, just react; and an impulse to pray probably means something dangerous, even life-threatening, is happening. The second sentence confirms that, and the choice of “Curse, cry, scream, pray—” cracks open Raithe’s skull and lets us inside. The third sentence starts to illuminate why Raithe’s about to die: there’s an angry god twenty feet away—and presumably it’s Raithe who’s pissed him off. The slightly puzzling “strike them both dead”—wait, them both?—is immediately answered in the next line, and we learn that Raithe’s there with his father.
“The waters of the nearby converging rivers made enough noise to mask an army’s passage,” gives us a lot to consider. It gives us some more scenery: we’re somewhere in nature, loud and isolated, Raithe knows or can imagine what an army would sound like, and he’s one who uses antiphrasis to get his points across. “He would have preferred the army,” really gives us a sense of Raithe’s mindset, and inspires awe against the god.
Holy shit, we think, I’m about to witness a smiting. But this paragraph tells us much more. We’re in a noisy, outdoor setting; and gods walk among men in this world, and are angry and probably unkind, which suggests to us that Raithe and his father have endured hardships before; it teaches us that the narration will get close to characters’ minds, and that Raithe is sharp, observant, and uses understatement. How does Raithe know what people do in their last minutes of life, and does he know what armies sound like? we wonder about him.
Filling in Setting
Paragraph two is efficient description that still sits in Raithe’s perspective, which is an excellent choice because we feel the god and his attendants glaring at us, and we understand a little better how strident the gap is between Raithe and the god: the god has attendants wear clothing that is “remarkable.”
I really love how the narrator describes the way Raithe tries to get his father’s attention: “‘Hey?’Raithe called…” ‘Hey’ shows us that although we’re in a fantasy world, not all characters—or at least not Raithe—will be bogged down in high speech.3 It also shows us that, perhaps, Raithe is not formal or well educated. ‘Called’ is another effective choice. We’ll learn shortly—though we’ve already been given the impression—that Raithe is a man, but this verb choice evokes a boy calling for dad. Lastly the question mark in “‘Hey?’” gives us the tone, which encapsulates Raithe’s terror. I can hear him saying it. Imagine if instead Sullivan chose summary, Raithe tried to get his father’s attention or Raithe called to his father, and how much less you can see, feel, and know about the situation.
I need to catch my breath. In three paragraphs Sullivan has established a main character, some personality, a problem, visuals, sounds, all five characters who will act in the scene and their relationships, a voice, a firm psychic distance and probably a lot more.
Character Dynamics
Herkimer won’t figure into the story for long, but like most fathers, his son will think about him often, and Sullivan wants us to have a crisp picture of the man before he goes. Paragraph four shows us that Herkimer is experienced and practical. The phrase “opening a deer’s belly was a bloody business” is so interesting. I think it’s the line least connected to the action at hand and because Sullivan has seated us in Raithe’s POV so far, it feels like a stray thought of Raithe’s, a recollection of something Herkimer has said a hundred times before. The narrator shows us the paternal role Herkimer has played for his son,4 and we’re attached already.
This only makes Herkimer’s line (“Ah, it’s… okay”) shortly thereafter more pitiful. There’s a hint of resignation, as though he’s saying, “ah crap, I was afraid this might happen,” and a comforting word for his son, which Raithe thinks he’s directing in appeasement at the god.
Jumping ahead a little bit, I have to show you how Sullivan pays this off in a satisfying way that also gets a longer story in motion.
Excerpt Two
“Okay, okay, fine. We’ll go back across the river, right now. C’mon, Raithe.”
The god made an unhappy sound.
“After you give up the sword,” the servant said.
Herkimer glared. “This copper has been in my family for generations.”
“It’s a weapon. Toss it down.”
Herkimer looked at his son, a sidelong glance.
Although he might not have been a good father—wasn’t as far as Raithe was concerned—Herkimer had instilled one thing in all his sons: pride. Self-respect came from the ability to defend oneself. Such things gave a man dignity. In all of Dureya, in their entire clan, his father was the only man to wield a sword—a metal blade. Wrought from beaten copper, its marred, dull sheen was the color of a summer sunset, and legend held that the short-bladed heirloom had been mined and fashioned by a genuine Dherg smith. In comparison with the god’s sword, whose hilt was intricately etched and encrusted with gems, the copper blade was pathetic. Still, Herkimer’s weapon defined him; enemy clans knew him as Coppersword—a feared and respected title. His father could never give up that blade.
The roar of the river was cut by the cry of a hawk soaring above. Birds were known to be the embodiment of omens, and Raithe didn’t take the soaring wail as a positive sign. In its eerie echo, his father faced the god. “I can’t give you this sword.”
Raithe couldn’t help but smile. Herkimer, son of Hiemdal, of Clan Dureya wouldn’t bend so far, not even for a god.
The smaller servant took the horse’s lead and the god dismounted. Raithe watched—impossible not to. The way the god moved was mesmerizing, so graceful, fluid and poised. Despite the impressive movement, the god wasn’t physically imposing. He wasn’t tall, broad, or muscled. Raithe and his father had built strong shoulders and arms by wielding spear and shield throughout their lives. The god, on the other hand, appeared delicate, as if he had lived bedridden and spoon-fed. If the Fhrey were a man, Raithe wouldn’t have been afraid. Given the disparity between them in weight and height, he’d avoid a fight, even if challenged. To engage in such an unfair match would be cruel, and he wasn’t cruel. His brothers had received Raithe’s share of that particular trait.
“You don’t understand.” Herkimer tried once more to explain. “This sword has been handed down from father to son—”
The god rushed forward and punched Raithe’s father in the stomach, doubling him over. Then the Fhrey5 stole the copper sword, a dull scrape sounding as the weapon came free of its sheath. While Herkimer was catching his breath, the god examined the weapon with revulsion. Shaking his head, the god turned his back on Herkimer to show the tall servant the pitiable blade. Instead of joining the god’s ridicule of the weapon, the servant cringed. Raithe saw the future through the weasel man’s expression, for he was the first to notice Herkimer’s reaction.
Raithe’s father drew the skinning knife from his belt and lunged.
This time the god didn’t disappoint. With astounding speed, he whirled and drove the copper blade into Raithe’s father’s chest. Herkimer’s forward momentum did the work of running the sword deep. The fight ended the moment it began. His father gasped and fell, the sword still in his chest.
Sullivan kills Herkimer, paying off the threads he strung in the first pages: the threat posed is acted upon, we see why Raithe views these beings as gods, paradise has become hell, and all characters have had a purpose for being present.6 And Sullivan interleaves much more that will push us on: Herkimer’s pride is his undoing, yet Raithe doesn’t see it that way just now; his own inevitable pride means he won’t back down from this conflict either.
Exposition in Disguise
Sullivan builds a world without being expositional. Here’s an incomplete list of things you learned about this world just from reading these two passages:
This is a world with humans who share family systems not unfamiliar to the reader
Raithe’s society values violence (as does he), is superstitious (bird omens), and destitute
This is a world of hierarchies, stark power gaps; haves and have nots
Violence is commonplace
The setting is a pine forest with rivers, stag and probably other familiar flora and fauna, as well as horses
For humans, copper technology is luxury and most fighting and hunting is done with wooden implements
Some beings called Dherg do the smithing7
Another word for these gods is Fhrey
Furthermore, we’re shown Raithe’s character as prideful, warlike (he’s observed people about to die violently before), ambitious (he’s trespassing for personal gain), observant (his details about the setting are terrain-oriented), not cruel (at least he thinks so), capable (he successfully downed a stag), respectful or at least sensitive to hierarchies, poorly parented (at least he thinks so), and a lot more.
Macro-Rhythm
I want to touch on a specific technique Sullivan uses multiple times in these passages to advance action, set the scene, and characterize Raithe all in one impressive swipe.
“The roar of the river was cut by the cry of a hawk soaring above. Birds were known to be the embodiment of omens, and Raithe didn’t take the soaring wail as a positive sign. In its eerie echo, his father faced the god. ‘I can’t give you this sword.’”
And here’s my analysis of that:
Description that engages the senses and includes action. Expositional clause, analysis in main character’s voice that exposes his state of mind and relates to the current situation. Return to description of action. Action.
Simplifying it, this is an effective approach to building action that readers can see:
Active description —> Exposition and analysis —> return to action.
Another example:
“Herkimer had stripped off his wool leigh mor as well as his shirt because opening a deer’s belly was a bloody business. ‘What?’ He looked up.”
There are many examples of this rhythm, although to be clear Sullivan doesn’t always provide it in the sequence I just described—nor should he.
Last Thoughts
Age of Myth has an incredible opening chapter. I could write for an entire year on the sellability that Michael J Sullivan infuses into his books—maybe I will—and it starts here. This definitely won’t be the last you hear of Raithe, or Michael. If you’re interested in reading more, I really haven’t spoiled much in this article. Here’s a link. Remember to shop local and support your library.
Lastly, I really want to re-read the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Just as John Cheever’s “Goodbye, My Brother” works on Cain and Abel, intentional or not, this feels like a metatextual element of the story that’s worth considering further.
Thanks for reading. Help me decide what to publish next by filling out this poll, and if you haven’t listened to the first episode of Wasp and Xylem: the podcast click here! If you read this far, you’re going to love it.
Which I’m also reading for my podcast
The two sections below come from chapter one and spoil only what happens in the first seven pages
Remember how Tolkien looms over all fantasy
Later he’ll elaborate, and complicate, this relationship
In the pages I skipped, the narrator has told us that this is another word for the god character
Except, really, for one servant, but he will figure in to the tale in a paragraph or two
A clear call to dwarves for most fantasy readers; see Tolkien