BIG BANG
8:08 P.M.—my bedroom, three pillows on the floor, a fourth one lost between my bed and the wall
The first chapter, the first entry, is always a tricky one.
It’s being introduced to the parents and choosing what flowers to bring—lilies are pretty but reserved for the dead; red roses are traditional, too much so; forget-me-nots are forgettable—then wondering if you are to bring flowers at all. A bottle of wine might be more appropriate. Or some chocolates, maybe? High-end coffee? But what if they prefer tea? Candles, then. But how many?
The first chapter is a job interview, hands clammy and tongue tied. It’s that quickening in your chest when the interviewer frowns, just the slightest, reading over your resume. Can they tell from a series of words, condensed and pointedly accurate, that you know your subject? Do they think you’re just faking it? Are you faking it?
The first chapter is going on a first date. It’s having to decide whether to hug, shake hands, or lean forward for a quick bise. It’s wondering if you’re having a stroke with how you’re fumbling over your words, failing to maintain the pitch of your voice, and dropping small spit missiles in the air every time you dare laugh. It’s trying to play it cool. To remain composed. To try, yes, but not too hard, even as it feels like the rest of your life hangs on this first impression. No pressure.
In the publishing world—or, for what little I’ve seen of it, the querying world—the first chapter is crucial. It can either be your open sesame or a revolving door, slapping you in the face before you can even set a toe in the Room Where It Happens. Sometimes you don’t get to show more than a first chapter. Sometimes it's five pages. Sometimes it’s only a query letter; three paragraphs in 12pt size, resuming your life’s work, your life and how your life is pertinent to your work.
Sometimes, no words need to be exchanged. Sometimes, the number of followers you possess does all the talking, social sovereignty the heftiest bribe you could slip under the table.
The first chapter needs impact.
It needs to grab the reader by the lungs and not let go. It needs to strike hunger. It needs to strike a spark—that spark! like glancing at your crush and finding them already looking at you.
A good first chapter is like a theatre stage.
You must set the scene. Dust off the background you've seen a hundred times over, and paint it a new colour, then another. Introduce the actors. Fire three of them. Bring back two. Change their accent. Now have them kiss. Yes, yes, now bring the orchestra and the guy with the kazoo. Do something never done before. Do it now! Make it loud! Make it make sense! Make the people want more, more, more—scrape it. Restart from scratch. Keep the kazoo.
A first chapter is daunting. A first chapter is crucial. A first chapter makes or breaks a story.
So let’s do it right, shall we? Let’s set the scene.
Let’s introduce the girl.
Imagine her. She’s the eldest daughter of parents who should have divorced. She’s 5ft4. She’s got scars all over her body from picking at her skin, underestimating gravity and trying to give meaning to the ache in her chest throughout her teenage years. She witnessed the 2008 market crash and berated her parents for a Wii (which she got). She was born on the French border between France (you guessed it) and Switzerland. She really (really) likes parentheses. She’s the owner of a senior bull terrier who farts more than she barks. She’s a hopeful nihilist and forever the fatalistic optimist. She loves love. She despises dating. She tolerates life.
She’s just turned 27 years old. She’s got no money and no prospects. She’s already a burden to her parents—yeah, you get the gist.
So this girl has not much to her name: some five hundred bucks in a bank account, a high school diploma in graphic design, three first names (their letters chasing rhythmically after one another like sisters of seven, four, and three respectively), and more bleach in her bathroom than she has hair left to dye.
That girl does not have much, but she’s got spite. And she has been waiting nine years. Yes, NINE years (as the time it takes you to raise a nine-year-old kid or read the dictionary, I guess; my aunt did both once, and finished doing neither) for her life to finally start with a big bang!
So here it comes.
I am that girl.
My name is Justine Jude. I’ve been waiting nine long years for something, anything to make sense and give me meaning.
Nine years of trying and failing, learning and begging; nine years of Unfortunately! and Sorry! and Later! Nine years of this beast in my belly ransoming my tears and sweat, demanding feeding, demanding success. Nine years of this voice in my head, this constant whisper nagging for my potential to be released, for my writing to be read, for my life to be lived.
I am that girl. And this moment, this first chapter, this first entry in my digital diaries—
This is my big bang.
