Wired for Story: The Writer's Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers from the Very First Sentence Read Free Page B

canbe summed up by a single sentence—All is not as it seems—which means that what we’re hoping for in that opening sentence is the sense that something is about to change (and not necessarily for the better).
    Simply put, we are looking for a reason to care. So for a story to grab us, not only must something be happening, but also there must be a consequence we can anticipate. As neuroscience reveals, what draws us into a story and keeps us there is the firing of our dopamine neurons, signaling that intriguing information is on its way. 10 This means that whether it’s an actual event unfolding or we meet the protagonist in the midst of an internal quandary or there’s merely a hint that something’s slightly “off” on the first page, there has to be a ball already in play. Not the preamble to the ball. Not all the stuff you have to know to really understand the ball. The ball itself. This is not to say the first ball must be the main ball—it can be the initial ball or even a starter ball. But on that first page, it has to feel like the only ball and it has to have our complete attention.
    For instance, how about this—the first paragraph of Caroline Leavitt’s
Girls In Trouble
—for a ball in play?
    Sara’s pains are coming ten minutes apart now. Every time one comes, she jolts herself against the side of the car, trying to disappear. Everything outside is whizzing past her from the car window because Jack, her father, is speeding, something she’s never seen him do before. Sara grips the armrest, her knuckles white. She presses her back against the seat and digs her feet into the floor, as if any moment she will fly from the car.
Stop
, she wants to say.
Slow down. Stop
. But she can’t form the words, can’t make her mouth work properly. Can’t do anything except wait in terror for the next pain. Jack hunches over the wheel, beeping his horn though there isn’t much traffic. His face is reflected in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t look at her. Instead, he can’t seem to keep himself from looking at Abby, Sara’s mother, who is sitting in the back with Sara. His face is unreadable. 11
     
    Trouble brewing? Yep. Longstanding trouble? At least nine months, probably longer. Can’t you feel the momentum? It pulls you forward, even as it grounds you in the unfolding moment. You want to know not only what happens next but also what led to what’s happening right now. Who’s the father? Was it consensual? Was she raped? Thus your curiosity is engaged, and you read on without consciously having made the decision to do so.

What Does That Mean?
     
    As readers we eagerly probe each piece of information for significance, constantly wondering, “What is this meant to tell me?” It’s said people can go forty days without food, three days without water, and about thirty-five seconds without finding meaning in something—truth is, thirty-five seconds is an eternity compared to the warp speed with which our subconscious brain rips through data. It’s a biological imperative: we are always on the hunt for meaning—not in the metaphysical “What is the true nature of reality?” sense but in the far more primal, very specific sense of:
Joe left without his usual morning coffee; I wonder why? Betty is always on time; how come she’s half an hour late? That annoying dog next door barks its head off every morning; why is it so quiet today?
    We are always looking for the
why
beneath what’s happening on the surface. Not only because our survival might depend on it, but because it’s exhilarating. It makes us feel something—namely, curiosity. Having our curiosity piqued is visceral. And it leads to something even more potent: the anticipation of knowledge we’re now hungry for, a sensation caused by that pleasurable rush of dopamine. Because being curious is necessary for survival (
What’s that rustling in the bushes?
), nature encourages it. And what better way to encourage curiosity than to make