Edit: but maybe Ed’s got an even better opening

In the last post, I proposed a different opening for Ed's novel utilizing narrative that started later in his manuscript. But now I'm thinking I might have been only sorta right. As a refresher, here's the alternate opening I plucked from Ed's first chapter, as posted last week. No edits have been made.

As if a catapult had launched it, a Boeing 767 streaked through the sky only several hundred feet above the conference room in building seven of the World Trade Center, home of the Office of Emergency Management, the emergency command center for the city of New York. Erica Bishop looked up from gazing at the twin towers while she waited for her meeting with Mayor Guiliani. Maybe because she tracked death and destruction for a living, she knew the airliner was way too low and way too fast.

Then, in a heartbeat, a blinding explosion filled the upper floors of the north tower. She felt the floor under her shake as she heard the impact seventy floors above her, a half a block away. If she hadn't seen the crash next door she would have thought a bomb had exploded in her building. The fireball seemed to engulf several floors of the building. Smoke, billowing out of the gaping hole and broken windows, began drifting southeast. A rainstorm of debris fell from the tower, a ticker tape parade with a violent beginning and a disastrous ending. Below, in the plaza, people ducked for cover.

My God, those poor people. Erica glanced at her wristwatch. It read 8:46 AM, 9-11-01 ... 911 ... She ran to the phone and dialed, giving as many details of the incident as she could pick out of her jumbled brain. Disconnecting, she rang a second number. This one in Washington. Her boss, Ted Saunders, the manager of Air Carrier Flight Operations at the NTSB.

"We need a Go Team in Manhattan, immediately! An American Airlines 767 just flew into the World Trade Center." The Go Team, aptly named because they were always ready to go, didn't usually have a bag packed. There was no way to know where they might be headed. It might be the frozen tundra of Alaska, the swamps of Florida, or the sun-baked deserts of Arizona. They were the core of the NTSB investigations.

Even though Erica's professional life consisted of investigating plane crashes, she had never witnessed one in person before. Her hands were shaking, her voice unsteady as she informed her boss. In a blinding flash, her original thought came back... My God, those poor people. God in heaven, have mercy on their souls. Jesus, how could this happen?

This is suspenseful, it starts with something happening, and it introduces the protagonist, all good things. But a comment from a reader caused me to reconsider my understanding of what this novel is really about. Gail wondered if writing about 9/11 was a good idea because it has been done before. I believe that, like many huge real-life tragedies, 9/11 will be a viable subject for writers to mine for truth for a long time. It is the human response to the event that matters. So that may not be a problem.

But, in thinking about it, I realized that the above narrative is vague in its focus. Yeah, it concerns 9/11, but what about it? Her investigation of the crash? Luckily, Ed sent plenty of his first chapter. About 2,700 words after the novel opened came the following, and I suspect this is the real beginning of his novel (I've added one phrase to set up the time/place, and this is unedited.)

In the chaos following the crash of the second airliner into the World Trade Center, Erica Bishop hurried toward the waterfront, the opposite direction the smoke drifted. She nearly stumbled over a man, dressed in business casual attire, lying on the sidewalk. He might have been about her age, late twenties, maybe older. She couldn't be sure since blood covered his face. His skull had been split open from falling debris, but his chest rose and fell with each breath. A pool of blood collected beneath him. Erica knelt beside him, said a brief prayer and asked, "What's your name?"

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the man answered, "Sharanski ... Lev Sharanski."

"Hang in there, Lev Sharanski. Help is on the way." She cradled his head in her hands and tore off his shirttail to use as a bandage. "You're going to be okay. What else hurts besides your head?"

His response surprised her; a weak "nothing" sounded from his lips. He appeared to be far more hurt than he admitted. An ambulance arrived a few minutes later, and the technicians loaded him into the back of the EMS vehicle alive, for now.

Once the EMTs moved his body, Erica noticed a small brown envelope on the ground. She held the passport in her bloody fingers. Inside, the name read, "Satam al Suqami." The photo showed a different face than that of the injured man, but it appeared he had dropped it. Erica pocketed the passport, intending to return it to its rightful owner, grabbed her briefcase and continued down Vesey Street toward the Hudson River.

Now there are interesting story questions: who was the man? What's the significance of the passport? What will Erica encounter -- we know it won't be good, right? Were I you, Ed, I'd look at starting the story here -- if, that is, the passport etc. is indeed the inciting incident of your plot.

This narrative still needs tightening and editing, so here's a quick pass at that. Remember, an editor cannot be other than subjective (although, hopefully, well-informed). What I do below are suggestions, not declarations. Things I added are in red and comments are green.

In the chaos following the crash of the second airliner into the World Trade Center, Erica Bishop hurried toward the waterfront, the opposite direction the smoke drifted. (suggest a stronger verb than "hurried," and the last clause should be "opposite the direction the smoke drifted.") She nearly stumbled over a man, dressed in business casual attire, lying on the sidewalk. (Missing a chance for good action description here. What, exactly, does "nearly stumbled" mean? Why not have her stumble over him and fall, skinning her hands on the pavement, then show her crawling to him to see if she can help?) He might have been about her age, late twenties, maybe older (suggest simpler "He looked her age"). She couldn't be sure since blood covered his face. His skull had been split open from falling debris, but his chest rose and fell with each breath. A pool of blood collected beneath him. Erica knelt beside him, said a brief prayer, and asked, "What's your name?"

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the man answered, "Sharanski ... Lev Sharanski." (pov problem: she can't really know if he's drifting in and out…show the behavior that makes her/the reader think this instead of "telling." For example: The man's glazed stare focused on her and he answered, "Sharanski." His gaze clouded…then sharpened. "Lev Sharanski.")

"Hang in there, Lev Sharanski. Help is on the way." She cradled his head in her hands and tore off his shirttail to use as a bandage. "You're going to be okay. What else hurts besides your head?" (how can she tear off his shirttail to use as a bandage while cradling his head in her hands? You can reverse the actions.)

His response surprised her; a weak "nNothing." sounded from his lips. He appeared to be far more hurt than he admitted. (I'm not sure what this means. Is it the blood? His pallor? I think the reasons for this conclusion need to be more specific in Erica's mind.) An ambulance arrived a few minutes later, and the technicians loaded him into the back of the EMS vehicle alive, for now.

Once the EMTs moved his body, Erica noticed a small brown envelope on the ground. She held the passport in her bloody fingers. (How did we get from an envelope on the ground to a passport in her hands? Passports are not envelopes. Please show [minimally, of course] what she does.) Inside, the name read, "Satam al Suqami." The photo showed a different face than that of the injured man, but it appeared he had dropped it. ("it appeared" is unmotivated by anything we've seen, though logical. Could say: but Erica felt sure he must have dropped it.) Erica pocketed the passport, intending to return it to its rightful owner, grabbed her briefcase and continued down Vesey Street toward the Hudson River. (could use more visualization here -- what is the crowd like around her? What are the sounds? What are the smells? How is she "continuing," i.e. in a panic, running, what?)

For what it's worth. Thanks, Ed, for sharing your work.

RR

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© 2005 Ray Rhamey