What is the best way to start a long series?

[Cap'n Gravelock]

Okay, which do you think makes a good start to a series?

A Huge Battle!
Just like Order of the Stick and their fight with goblins.

In A Prison?
Like Elder Scrolls and Vermintide 2.

Or A Tavern
Like just about every other RPG.

[veti]

Series of what? What setting, what genre?

A battle may be appropriate for an epic fantasy quest, but not so much for a realistic romantic comedy.

[Cheesegear]

The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.

[Kitten Champion]

Set it wherever best fits the rest of the intended narrative.

The fact that it's supposed to be a long series is inconsequential. That's more about planning and creating a strong foundation with the characters and their world than apparently arbitrarily deciding where the very beginning is set.

[Anonymouswizard]

Unhelpful answer incoming.

It depends on the series.

As the Giant himself notes in Dungeon Crawling Fools the OotS webcomic opens poorly for pretty much any medium where you can't just poor a 'cast of characters' link.

The only real rule is that you should hook your audience at the start. Otherwise the sky's the limit. My book begins with somebody walking through a forest, and I plan to spend several chapters before anything big happens.

[Malimar]

In medias res (start in the middle of some important action, which you then go back and explain later) is virtually never a bad idea... but it's also not the only workable option.

[brian 333]

If the first sentence doesn't hook the audience they won't read the second.

I'm not saying that the story should begin with a shootout at high noon, but it should begin with something the reader can comprehend and which leads him to be curious about what comes next.

One tactic is to begin a story with something that exemplifies a character trait or theme. Kirk's attitudes are exposed in the first scene of nu-Trek. Wild, reckless, and extremely competent. The rest of the show demonstrates how that wildness is harnessed to serve a useful purpose rather than, as it appeared to have been doing, destroying him.

Moby **** begins with a scene of exceptional crowding in a seaside city which serves to demonstrate the theme of leaving the crowd in search of solitude, and ends with Ishmael alone on the sea desperately hoping for rescue. Among its other themes, it explores the scale of population density from squalid, crowded conditions in the seaside towns to the ultimate isolation of being lost at sea.

Your first sentence should compel the reader to read the second. You should be going somewhere with it from the start. You should expose a conflict which will be treated in the story.

Into Darkness begins with the theme of defiance of the rules to save a friend, and resolves with defiance of an admiral to save everyone. Throughout Kirk grows from a womanizer who places his fun ahead of the potential repercussions of his actions, and concludes with the realization that everyone is a part of his family. Meanwhile, Spock grows from a person who suppresses all emotional attachments to a person who is made stronger because of them. Same theme from opposite ends, both encapsulated in the opening scene and regularly revisited through the piece.

[Eldan]

My favourite series with a lot of books in it starts when the mailman arrives at the main character's office (Dresden Files). THough if you go chronologically and count originally unreleased short stories that the author is a bit ashamed of, it starts in a phone booth with the main character calling his boss to tell him he's found the missing kid.

[2D8HP]

Start like this:

"It was the Year of the Behemoth, the Month of the Hedgehog, the Day of the Toad. A hot, late summer sun was sinking down toward evening over the somber, fertile land of Lankhmar. Peasants toiling in the endless grain fields paused for a moment and lifted their earth-stained faces and noted that it would soon be time to commence lesser chores. Cattle cropping the stubble began to move in the general direction of home. Sweaty merchants and shopkeepers decided to wait a little longer before enjoying the pleasures of the bath. Thieves and astrologers moved restlessly in their sleep, sensing that the hours of night and work were drawing near.

At the southernmost limit of the land of Lankhmar, a day's ride beyond the village of Soreev, where the grain fields give way to rolling forests of maple and oak, two horsemen cantered leisurely along a narrow, dusty road. They presented a sharp contrast. The larger wore a tunic of unbleached linen, drawn tight at the waist by a very broad leather belt. A fold of linen cloak was looped over his head as a protection against the sun. A longsword with a pomegranate-shaped golden pommel was strapped to his side. Behind his right shoulder a quiver of arrows jutted up. Half sheathed in a saddlecase was a thick yew bow, unstrung. His great, lean muscles, white skin, copper hair, green eyes, and above all the pleasant yet untamed expression of his massive countenance, all hinted at a land of origin colder, rougher, and more barbarous than that of Lankhmar.

Even as everything about the larger man suggested the wilderness, so the general appearance of the smaller man—and he was considerably smaller—spoke of the city. His dark face was that of a jester. Bright, black eyes, snub nose, and little lines of irony about the mouth. Hands of a conjurer. Something about the set of his wiry frame betokening exceptional competence in street fights and tavern brawls. He was clad from head to foot in garments of gray silk, soft and curiously loose of weave. His slim sword, cased in gray mouseskin, was slightly curved toward the tip. From his belt hung a sling and a pouch of missiles.

Despite their many dissimilarities, it was obvious that the two men were comrades, that they were united by a bond of subtle mutual understanding, woven of melancholy, humor, and many another strand. The smaller rode a dappled gray mare; the larger, a chestnut gelding.

They were nearing a point where the narrow road came to the end of a rise, made a slight turn and wound down into the next valley. Green walls of leaves pressed in on either side. The heat was considerable, but not oppressive. It brought to mind thoughts of satyrs and centaurs dozing in hidden glades.

Then the gray mare, slightly in the lead, whinnied. The smaller man tightened his hold on the reins, his black eyes darting quick, alert glances, first to one side of the road and then to the other. There was a faint scraping sound, as of wood on wood.

Without warning the two men ducked down, clinging to the side harness of their horses. Simultaneously came the musical twang of bowstrings, like the prelude of some forest concert, and several arrows buzzed angrily through the spaces that had just been vacated. Then the mare and the gelding were around the turn and galloping like the wind, their hooves striking up great puffs of dust.

From behind came excited shouts and answers as the pursuit got underway. There seemed to have been fully seven or eight men in the ambuscade—squat, sturdy rogues wearing chain-mail shirts and steel caps. Before the mare and the gelding had gone a stone's throw down the road, they were out and after, a black horse in the lead, a black-bearded rider second.

But those pursued were not wasting time. The larger man rose to a stand in his stirrups, whipping the yew bow from its case. With his left hand he bent it against the stirrup, with his right he drew the upper loop of the string into place. Then his left hand slipped down the bow to the grip and his right reached smoothly back over his shoulder for an arrow. Still guiding his horse with his knees, he rose even higher and turned in his saddle and sent an eagle-feathered shaft whirring. Meanwhile his comrade had placed a small leaden ball in his sling, whirled it twice about his head, so that it hummed stridently, and loosed his cast.

Arrow and missile sped and struck together. The one pierced the shoulder of the leading horseman and the other smote the second on his steel cap and tumbled him from his saddle. The pursuit halted abruptly in a tangle of plunging and rearing horses. The men who had caused this confusion pulled up at the next bend in the road and turned back to watch.

"By the Hedgehog," said the smaller, grinning wickedly, "but they will think twice before they play at ambuscades again!"

"Blundering fools," said the larger. "Haven't they even learned to shoot from their saddles? I tell you, Gray Mouser, it takes a barbarian to fight his horse properly."

"Except for myself and a few other people," replied the one who bore the feline nickname of Gray Mouser. "But look, Fafhrd, the rogues retreat bearing their wounded, and one gallops far ahead.*Tcha, but I dinted black beard's pate for him. He hangs over his nag like a bag of meal. If he'd have known who we were, he wouldn't have been so hot on the chase."

There was some truth to this last boast. The names of the Gray Mouser and the Northerner Fafhrd were not unknown in the lands around Lankhmar—and in proud Lankhmar, too. Their taste for strange adventure, their mysterious comings and goings, and their odd sense of humor were matters that puzzled almost all men alike.

Abruptly Fafhrd unstrung his bow and turned forward in his saddle.

"This should be the very valley we are seeking," he said. "See, there are the two hills, each with two close-set humps, of which the document speaks. Let's have another look at it, to test my guess."

The Gray Mouser reached into his capacious leather pouch and withdrew a page of thick vellum, ancient and curiously greenish. Three edges were frayed and worn; the fourth showed a clean and recent cut. It was inscribed with the intricate hieroglyphs of Lankhmarian writing, done in the black ink of the squid. But it was not to these that the Mouser turned his attention, but to several faint lines of diminutive red script, written into the margin. These he read.

* * *

"Let kings stack their treasure houses ceiling-high, and merchants burst their vaults with hoarded coin, and fools envy them. I have a treasure that outvalues theirs. A diamond as big as a man's skull. Twelve rubies each as big as the skull of a cat. Seventeen emeralds each as big as the skull of a mole. And certain rods of crystal and bars of orichalcum. Let Overlords swagger jewel-bedecked and queens load themselves with gems, and fools adore them. I have a treasure that will outlast theirs. A treasure house have I builded for it in the far southern forest, where the two hills hump double, like sleeping camels, a day's ride beyond the village of Soreev.

"A great treasure house with a high tower, fit for a king's dwelling—yet no king may dwell there. Immediately below the keystone of the chief dome my treasure lies hid, eternal as the glittering stars. It will outlast me and my name, I, Urgaan of Angarngi. It is my hold on the future. Let fools seek it. They shall win it not. For although my treasure house be empty as air, no deadly creature in rocky lair, no sentinel outside anywhere, no pitfall, poison, trap, or snare, above and below the whole place bare, of demon or devil not a hair, no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair, no skull with mortal eye a-glare, yet have I left a guardian there. Let the wise read this riddle and forbear."

* * *

"The man's mind runs to skulls," muttered the Mouser. "He must have been a gravedigger or a necromancer."

"Or an architect," observed Fafhrd thoughtfully, "in those past days when graven images of the skulls of men and animals served to bedeck temples."

"Perhaps," agreed the Mouser. "Surely the writing and ink are old enough. They date at least as far back as the Century of the Wars with the East—five long lifespans."

The Mouser was an accomplished forger, both of handwriting and of objects of art. He knew what he was talking about.

Satisfied that they were near the goal of their quest, the two comrades gazed through a break in the foliage down into the valley. It was shaped like the inside of a pod—shallow, long, and narrow. They were viewing it from one of the narrow ends. The two peculiarly humped hills formed the long sides. The whole of the valley was green with maple and oak, save for a small gap toward the middle. That, thought the Mouser, might mark a peasant's dwelling and the cleared space around it.

Beyond the gap he could make out something dark and squarish rising a little above the treetops. He called his companion's attention to it, but they could not decide whether it was indeed a tower such as the document mentioned, or just a peculiar shadow, or perhaps even the dead, limbless trunk of a gigantic oak. It was too far away.

"Almost sufficient time has passed," said Fafhrd, after a pause, "for one of those rogues to have sneaked up through the forest for another shot at us. Evening draws near."

They spoke to their horses and moved on slowly. They tried to keep their eyes fixed on the thing that looked like a tower, but since they were descending, it almost immediately dropped out of sight below the treetops. There would be no further chance of seeing it until they were quite close at hand.

The Mouser felt a subdued excitement running through his flesh. Soon they would discover if there was a treasure to be had or not. A diamond as big as a man's skull*.*.*. rubies*.*.*. emeralds*.*.*. He found an almost nostalgic delight in prolonging and savoring to the full this last, leisurely stage of their quest. The recent ambuscade served as a necessary spice.

He thought of how he had slit the interesting-looking vellum page from the ancient book on architecture that reposed in the library of the rapacious and overbearing Lord Rannarsh. Of how, half in jest, he had sought out and interrogated several peddlers from the South. Of how he had found one who had recently passed through a village named Soreev. Of how that one had told him of a stone structure in the forest south of Soreev, called by the peasants the House of Angarngi and reputed to be long deserted. The peddler had seen a high tower rising above the trees. The Mouser recalled the man's wizened, cunning face and chuckled. And that brought to mind the greedy, sallow face of Lord Rannarsh, and a new thought occurred to him.

"Fafhrd," he said, "those rogues we just now put to flight—what did you take them for?"

The Northerner grunted humorous contempt.

"Run-of-the-manger ruffians. Waylayers of fat merchants. Pasture bravos. Bumpkin bandits!"

"Still, they were all well armed, and armed alike—as if they were in some rich man's service. And that one who rode far ahead. Mightn't he have been hastening to report failure to some master?"

"What is your thought?"

The Mouser did not reply for some moments.

"I was thinking," he said, "that Lord Rannarsh is a rich man and a greedy one, who slavers at the thought of jewels. And I was wondering if he ever read those faint lines of red lettering and made a copy of them, and if my theft of the original sharpened his interest."

The Northerner shook his head.

"I doubt it. You are oversubtle. But if he did, and if he seeks to rival us in this treasure quest, he'd best watch each step twice—and choose servitors who can fight on horseback."

They were moving so slowly that the hooves of the mare and the gelding hardly stirred up the dust. They had no fear of danger from the rear. A well-laid ambuscade might surprise them, but not a man or horse in motion. The narrow road wound along in a purposeless fashion. Leaves brushed their faces, and occasionally they had to swing their bodies out of the way of encroaching branches. The ripe scent of the late summer forest was intensified now that they were below the rim of the valley. Mingled with it were whiffs of wild berries and aromatic shrubs. Shadows imperceptibly lengthened.

"Nine chances out of ten," murmured the Mouser dreamily, "the treasure house of Urgaan of Angarngi was looted some hundred years ago, by men whose bodies are already dust."

"It may be so," agreed Fafhrd. "Unlike men, rubies and emeralds do not rest quietly in their graves."

This possibility, which they had discussed several times before, did not disturb them now, or make them impatient. Rather did it impart to their quest the pleasant melancholy of a lost hope. They drank in the rich air and let their horses munch random mouthfuls of leaves. A jay called shrilly from overhead and off in the forest a catbird was chattering, their sharp voices breaking in on the low buzzing and droning of the insects. Night was drawing near. The almost-horizontal rays of the sun gilded the treetops. Then Fafhrd's sharp ears caught the hollow lowing of a cow.

A few more turns brought them into the clearing they had spied. In line with their surmise, it proved to contain a peasant's cottage—a neat little low-eaved house of weathered wood, situated in the midst of an acre of grain. To one side was a bean patch; to the other, a woodpile which almost dwarfed the house. In front of the cottage stood a wiry old man, his skin as brown as his homespun tunic. He had evidently just heard the horses and turned around to look.

"Ho, father," called the Mouser, "it's a good day to be abroad in, and a good home you have here."

The peasant considered these statements and then nodded his head in agreement.

"We are two weary travelers," continued the Mouser.

Again the peasant nodded gravely.

"In return for two silver coins will you give us lodging for the night?"

The peasant rubbed his chin and then held up three fingers.

"Very well, you shall have three silver coins," said the Mouser, slipping from his horse. Fafhrd followed suit.

Only after giving the old man a coin to seal the bargain did the Mouser question casually, "Is there not an old, deserted place near your dwelling called the House of Angarngi?" The peasant nodded.

"What's it like?"

The peasant shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't you know?"

The peasant shook his head.

"But haven't you ever seen the place?" The Mouser's voice carried a note of amazement he did not bother to conceal.

He was answered by another head-shake.

"But, father, it's only a few minutes' walk from your dwelling, isn't it?"

The peasant nodded tranquilly, as if the whole business were no matter for surprise.

A muscular young man, who had come from behind the cottage to take their horses, offered a suggestion.

"You can see tower from other side the house. I can point her out."

At this the old man proved he was not completely speechless by saying in a dry, expressionless voice: "Go ahead. Look at her all you want......"

[endoperez]

There are many ways to hook a reader into reading a long series. Which one is the best depends on the themes of the work, the intended audience, the audience's expectations and so on.

The best way to start writing a long series is to have written enough short stories to be a professional author whose works are already so good they make money. The best way to learn writing is to write. Writing, as any other skill, takes time to master. In the first 100 hours of practice, you learn more than in the second 100 hours, because in the beginning, there's just so much to learn. As your skill grows, you run out of the low-hanging branches, and need to start looking for the difficult stuff - which takes longer to learn.

A long series will take thousands of hours to write. Unless the author has already practiced thousands of hours before starting the long series, once the author is half-way through the series he's learned so much that the early writings in the series have become a hinderance and much worse in comparison to the later parts of the story.

If you want your long series to be great, you have to be a great writer already. A great writer would already know answers to the questions you're asking, so you're not great yet. If you really like the story idea, don't write it yet - you aren't good enough to do your idea justice. You could do related stories, or stories inspired by it. The side adventures of people who know about the "main plot" you'd like to write, but won't be the ones to see it first-hand or to be its heroes. This way you can use your ideas for the big story as inspiration, but aren't forced to commit to writing the big story just yet. Shorter stories are easier to write, and easy to learn from.

An inexperienced, amateur author should only start writing a long series with the understanding that it's going to be an imperfect piece whose purpose is to write and to learn to write. For most professional authors, they've been writing years or even decades before they start writing their long series. George R. R. Martin's first published book came out in 1977. He started writing the Wild Card series ten years later, but they were mostly independent stories set in a shared universe. A Song of Ice and Fire series didn't come out until 1999, more than 20 years after his first published book.
If you want to write it, even though it might not be as good as you wish it were, writing it should still be a goal in and of itself. Here's an interview of Robert Jordan, whose book from 1980 wasn't published and will never be published. By the time he could have had it published, he was already a better writer.
http://www.theoryland.com/intvmain.php?i=168#11

[Yora]

A series, or any larger work that takes a few sittings to get through, should start with what is basically a trailer for the whole thing. As soon as possible, the creators should make it clear to the audience what kind of story they want to take them on and what interesting things they can expect to encounter along the way.
Nothing is worse than being a hundred pages into a novel series and still wondering "but what is this all about?" By the end of the first chapter (or episode, or issue, or whatever) the audience needs to have been made a promise of what they will get if they keep following the story. Not in content, but in style, themes, and atmosphere.

Start like this:
[I]
"It was the Year of the Behemoth, the Month of the Hedgehog, the Day of the Toad. A hot, late summer sun was sinking down toward evening over the somber, fertile land of Lankhmar. Peasants toiling in the endless grain fields paused for a moment and lifted their earth-stained faces and noted that it would soon be time to commence lesser chores. Cattle cropping the stubble began to move in the general direction of home. Sweaty merchants and shopkeepers decided to wait a little longer before enjoying the pleasures of the bath. Thieves and astrologers moved restlessly in their sleep, sensing that the hours of night and work were drawing near.

I am more fond of this:

“Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars—Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. [B]Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen- eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet.”
Robert Howard established a new genre with these lines. It doesn't tell us anything about plot, but it's such a fantastic job at giving you a sales pitch. The only opening that does a better job at this in all of fiction is Star Wars. An entire new and unique universe completely explained before the second character says any word.

[Knaight]

If the first sentence doesn't hook the audience they won't read the second.

I'm not saying that the story should begin with a shootout at high noon, but it should begin with something the reader can comprehend and which leads him to be curious about what comes next.

Sheer quality of prose in that first few sentences can also work here. "The empire, long divided, must unite, long united, must divide. So it has always been" is pretty much all it took to hook a great many people for Romance of the Three Kingdoms*, the poetic description of three silences worked wonders for The Name of The Wind, "It was a dark and stormy night" is a strong enough sentence to be better known than the work it is in, so on and so forth.

*That's from memory, and it might be the last sentence; they're very similar but in slightly different order.

[Yora]

I take back by previous statement about the first Conan paragraph. There's an opening sentence that is even more amazing in how it captures the attention and makes the reader really curious about much more details:

"The building was on fire, and it wasn't my fault."

[Tyndmyr]

Okay, which do you think makes a good start to a series?


A single book.

Which starts with a single word.

Which particular one doesn't matter so much. Many have been used to good effect. That said, the Dresden quote above was quite good.

[Anonymouswizard]

Just to help people, examples from my attempts at hooks.

'The air was always warm.'

And

'The stars outside moved their slow dance, the only way John could tell his ship was moving.'


Note that the first one is very specifically the entire paragraph. It's meant to introduce an element of the setting via making the reader come up with a question ('why is the air warm?'), allow me to start the book by giving some basic setting information disguised as a character's thoughts, and set up the key conflict in the book ('the world is getting hotter, what do we do about it'). It's completely amateurish compared to most published author's attempts, but I think the simple five words work well on their own.

[Olinser]

I'm surprised nobody has posted this classic yet.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogPZ5CY9KoM

[BeerMug Paladin]

I don't know anything about writing. But I thought I'd post my attempt.

"Fog clenched to the endless ruins of the torn lands as the ocean rippled upon the shore."

[veti]

Some of my favourite openings. (All from different stories. I'm just putting them in a single quote bracket for simplicity.)


In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.

Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening Hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen.

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.

Here is Edward Bear, coming down the stairs now, bump bump bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.

One spring morning at four o'clock the first cuckoo arrived in the Valley of the Moomins.

July had been blown out like a candle by a biting wind that ushered in a leaden August sky.

You think twice about committing murder when you're over seventy.

None of them is particularly dramatic. All paint a very ordinary, accessible picture. Some add a hint of weird (clocks striking thirteen, daemon, hobbit). Others suggest an interesting perspective on the world (Edward Bear, "perfectly normal", "over seventy"). "One spring morning at four o'clock" is simply packed with anticipation.

[2D8HP]

Besides Lover's "Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser" tales, the long series that I have most re-read are Michael Moorcock's "Corum" series, which begins with

A Knight of Swords (1971):

"In those days there were oceans of light and cities in the skies and wild flying beasts of bronze. There were herds of crimson cattle that roared and were taller than castles. There were shrill, viridian things that haunted bleak rivers. It was a time of gods, manifesting themselves upon our world in all her aspects; a time of giants who walked on water; of mindless sprites and misshapen creatures who could be summoned by an ill-considered thought but driven away only on pain of some fearful sacrifice; of magics, phantasms, unstable nature, impossible events, insane paradoxes, dreams come true, dreams gone awry, of nightmares assuming reality.

It was a rich time and a dark time. The time of the Sword Rulers. The time when the Vadhagh and the Nhadragh, age-old enemies, -were dying. The time when Man, the slave of fear, was emerging, unaware that much of the terror he experienced was the result of nothing else but the fact that he, himself, had come into existence. It was one of many ironies connected with Man, who, in those days, called his race "Mabden."

The Mabden lived brief lives and bred prodigiously. Within a jew centuries they rose to dominate the westerly continent on which they had evolved. Superstition stopped them from sending many of their ships toward Vadhagh 9.and Nhadragh lands for another century or two, but gradually they gained courage when no resistance was offered. They began to feel jealous of the older races; they began to feel malicious.

The Vadhagh and the Nhadragh were not aware of this. They had dwelt a million or more years upon the planet which now, at last, seemed at rest. They knew of the Mabden but considered them not greatly different from other beasts. Though continuing to indulge their traditional hatreds of one another, the Vadhagh and the Nhadragh spent their long hours in considering abstractions, in the creation of works of art and the like. Rational, sophisticated, at one with themselves, these older races were unable to believe in the changes that had come. Thus, as it almost always is, they ignored the signs.

There was no exchange of knowledge between the two ancient enemies, even though they had fought their last battle many centuries before.

The Vadhagh lived in family groups occupying isolated castles scattered across a continent called by them Bro-an-Vadhagh. There was scarcely any communication between these families, for the Vadhagh had long since lost the impulse to travel. The Nhadragh lived in their cities built on the islands in the seas to the northwest of Bro-an-Vadhagh. They, also, had little contact, even with their closest kin. Both races reckoned themselves invulnerable. Both were wrong.

Upstart Man was beginning to breed and spread like a pestilence across the world. This pestilence struck down the old races wherever it touched them. And it was not only death that Man brought, but terror, too. Willfully, he made of the older world nothing but ruins and bones. Unwittingly, he brought psychic and supernatural disruption of a magnitude which even the Great Old Gods failed to comprehend.

And the Great Old Gods began to know Fear. And Man, slave of fear, arrogant in his ignorance, continued his stumbling progress. He was blind to the 10.huge disruptions aroused by his apparently petty ambitions. As well, Man was deficient in sensitivity, had no awareness of the multitude of dimensions that filled the universe, each plane intersecting with several others. Not so the Vadhagh nor the Nhadragh, who had known what it was to move at will between the dimensions they termed the Five Planes. They had glimpsed and understood the nature of the many planes, other than the Five, through which the Earth moved.

Therefore it seemed a dreadful injustice that these wise races should perish at the hands of creatures who were still little more than animals. It was as if vultures feasted on and squabbled over the paralyzed body of the youthful poet who could only stare at them with puzzled eyes as they slowly robbed him of an exquisite existence they would never appreciate, never know they were taking.

"If they valued what they stole, if they knew what they were destroying," says the old Vadhagh in the story, "The Onfy Autumn Flower," "then I would be consoled."

It was unjust.

By creating Man, the universe had betrayed the old races.

But it was a perpetual and familiar injustice. The sentient may perceive and love the universe, but the universe cannot perceive and love the sentient. The universe sees no distinction between the multitude of creatures and elements which comprise it. All are equal. None is favored. The universe, equipped with nothing but the materials and the power of creation, continues to create: something of this, something of that. It cannot control what it creates and it cannot, it seems, be controled by its creations (though a few might deceive themselves otherwise). Those who curse the workings of the universe curse that which is deaf. Those who strike out at those workings fight that which is inviolate. Those who shake their fists, shake their fists at blind stars.

But this does not mean that there are some who will not try to do battle with and destroy the invulnerable.

There will always be such beings, sometimes beings of great wisdom, who cannot bear to believe in an insouciant universe.

Prince Corum Jhaelen Irsei was one of these. Perhaps the last of the Vadhagh race, he was sometimes known as The Prince in the Scarlet Robe.

This chronicle concerns him...."


And the single fantasy novel that I've most re-read,

The War Hound and the World's Pain (1981),

also by Michael Moorcock, began:

"It was in that yeat when the fashion in cruelty demanded not only the crucifiction of peasant children, but a similar fate for their pets, that I first met Lucifer..."


How can you not be curious to know more?

[veti]

And the single fantasy novel that I've most re-read,

The War Hound and the World's Pain (1981),

also by Michael Moorcock, began:

"It was in that yeat when the fashion in cruelty demanded not only the crucifiction of peasant children, but a similar fate for their pets, that I first met Lucifer..."


How can you not be curious to know more?

If you're going to drop that name, I prefer:

My working relationship with Lucifer began on a rainy Monday.
It's just that something about the thought of crucifying children tells me, I don't really want to inhabit that world, not even in my imagination, for the duration of a whole book. Author trying to out-gross me? - been there, done that.

Rainy Mondays, on the other hand, I can cope with.

[2D8HP]

....It's just that something about the thought of crucifying children tells me, I don't really want to inhabit that world, not even in my imagination, for the duration of a whole book. Author trying to out-gross me? - been there, done that.......


The next lines are:
"Until May of 1631 I had commanded a troop of irregular infantry, mainly Poles, Swedes, and Scots. We had taken part in the destruction and looting of the city if Magdeburg, having somehow found ourselves in the army of the [........] forces under Count Johann Tzerclaes Tilly. Wind-borne gunpowder had turned the city into one huge keg and she had gone up all of a piece, driving us out with little booty to show for our hard work.
Disappointed and belligerent, Westfield by the business of rapine and slaughter, quarreling over what pathetic bits of goods they had managed to pull from the blazing houses, my men elected to split away from Tilly's forces. His had been a singularly ill-fed and badly equipped army, victim to the pride of bickering allied. It was a relief to leave it behind us.
We struck south into the foothills of the Hartz Mountains, intending to rest. However, it soon became evident to me that some of my men had contracted the Plague, and I deemed it wise, therefore, to saddle my horse quietly one night and, taking what food there was, continue my journey alone.
Having deserted my men, I was not yet green from the presence of death or desolation. The world was in agony and shrieked its pain..."

And it goes on for pages with a backdrop of the 30 years war (1618 to 1648), befofe getting to the supernatural elements, and it's not hard for a reader to think of 20th century parallels.

It starts deeply "Edgelord", and your initial assessment seems true at first, but as much as I mock the like now, as a teenager, I ate it up.

I had actually read the sequel, 1986's

City in the Autumn Stars (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_City_in_the_Autumn_Stars%23Plot_summary&ved=2ahUKEwi2sdzp2t7aAhWJ_p8KHZ8fC0kQygQwAHoECAQQA w&usg=AOvVaw1e6XpljVgy7axIUZdg6PiT)

which has the French reign of terror as a backgrounf first, the protaganist of which, a descendent of the War Hound, is initially more of a hero that inspires sympathy than the War Hound.

Anyway, after pages of character building biography, the protaganist of The War Hound and the World's Pain, Graf Ulrich von Bek, enters the oak groves of the northern fringes of the great Thuringian Forest", and finds that "the deeper into the forest I moved the less life I discovered", , and "Through the treetops I saw clear blue sky, and sunlight warned the glades. But insects danced in the beans; no bees crawled upon the leaves of the wild flowers; not even an earthworm twisted about the roots, though the soil was dark and smelled fertile", until "breaking out of the forest proper one afternoon, I saw before me a green, flowery hill which was crowned by the most beautiful castle I had ever beheld", he wonders "How could a building demand calm, to the degree that not even a mosquito would dare disturb it?"¡ but while "It was my first impulse to avoid the castle, but my pride overcame me", and "I refused to believe that there was anything genuinely mysterious...."

It's not much of a spoiler to say that what starts a historical tale of a man who's become evil in an evil time of war becomes a fantasy of redemption, and it's the fantasy novel I've probably re-read the most, even more than Tolkien.

[Lvl 2 Expert]

I'd argue the most important thing for a beginning is knowing what the first big story element is going to be. Then you find a way to get there from a cold start. If you're looking to send a large group of Swiss mercenaries to England you could start with a battle in the Netherlands. Their leadership dissolves as a result of a dramatic flanking maneuver and they're free to look for other work. But you could just as well start with them standing at attention for the French king who then insults their gear and skills, so they decide to just go work for his rival. Their are any openings that work, the important part is they get you into a position for the first real story element.

OotS does it almost the other way around, it stumbles into what would become a plot based on the start it has already chosen, six characters doing dungeon jokes. If you already know this will be a long story and what it will be about that's not the method for you.

[Eldan]

I take back by previous statement about the first Conan paragraph. There's an opening sentence that is even more amazing in how it captures the attention and makes the reader really curious about much more details:

"The building was on fire, and it wasn't my fault."

Dresden, but I don't know which one. He's in so many burning buildings.

Butcher got pretty good at these, later on. I just went over them, the earlier few are pretty boring. But:


"It rained toads the day the White Council came to town."

and


Blood leaves no stain on a Warden’s grey cloak.

are pretty good too.

Others have at least good opening paragraphs, like:




On the whole, we’re a murderous race.

According to Genesis, it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand, and the first murder was a fratricide. Genesis says that in a fit of jealous rage, the very first child born to mortal parents, Cain, snapped and popped the first metaphorical cap in another human being. The attack was a bloody, brutal, violent, reprehensible killing. Cain’s brother Abel probably never saw it coming.

As I opened the door to my apartment, I was filled with a sense of empathic sympathy and intuitive understanding.

For freaking Cain.

[Jay R]

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it."

"He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad."

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

"You are not really dying, are you?" asked Amanda.
"I have the doctor's permission to live till Tuesday," said Laura.
"But to-day is Saturday; this is serious!" gasped Amanda.

[2D8HP]

....."You are not really dying, are you?" asked Amanda.
"I have the doctor's permission to live till Tuesday," said Laura.
"But to-day is Saturday; this is serious!" gasped Amanda.


That one had me stumped.

And it worked!

[Fyraltari]

Hey, you! Yes, you holding the book in your hands. Wanna hear a story?

[Jay R]

That one had me stumped.

And it worked!

It's the short story "Laura", by Saki, available online here (http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/Laur797.shtml). It's quite short, engaging, and a little bizarre.

[Anonymouswizard]

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it."

Ironically part of the half of Narnia I haven't read (Voyage of the Dawn Treader, The Silver Chair, and A Horse and His Boy), because at the age I was reading Narnia I'd seen the BBC adaptation.

Although that's a good example of how to start a series generally, with a strong first novel. I think Narnia begins with it's strongest book, the fun adventure against Darkness that is The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. It's one of the few children's series that I really do want to read again as an adult, because it's just that good.

And how does the greatest book in the greatest fantasy series ever begin?

"Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy."

Although really, the hook is the title and the second line. You want to know how these three things link together, and what it has to do with four evacuees.

There is a line that when taken out of context, describes the feeling of these books. It is Aslan's line, and it simply states

"Yes, it is more magic."

For that is what each return to the land of Narnia brings, more magic.

Thank you, for you have convinced me to spend the money to actually begin my reread. I'm beginning with LWW and will read them all in publication order.

[Knaight]

Although that's a good example of how to start a series generally, with a strong first novel. I think Narnia begins with it's strongest book, the fun adventure against Darkness that is The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. It's one of the few children's series that I really do want to read again as an adult, because it's just that good.

It will be subject to nostalgiacide - reading it with the more critical eye that comes with adulthood tends to reveal a series far worse than the one you remembered.

[Anonymouswizard]

It will be subject to nostalgiacide - reading it with the more critical eye that comes with adulthood tends to reveal a series far worse than the one you remembered.

It's strange. Reading it again, I can see the problems. Edmund is by far the character with the most characterisation, for example, and some of the stuff would definitely be rather offensive if put in a modern book.

But it still has all the stuff that made me fall in love with the story, and it has more I didn't see. There's still that air of whimsy that comes from it not following the 'rules' of modern fantasy, and so being able to have Father Christmas show up to give the hero a sword and his sisters a bow and a dagger. There's still this sense of Aslan as a powerful but understanding being (and let's leave it at that). It's straightforward, but it's not simple. I can now see the things I didn't before the symbolism, the fact that the real world is not a nice place and that Narnia is in many places a refuge from it. At the same time, I'm combining my knowledge of the series and of Lewis and so coming to a deeper understanding of the books.

Is it truly perfect? No. But I stand by my claim, the best book in the greatest fantasy series ever. It has problems, all books have problems. But at the same time as having problems, and at not having amazing world building, it has the charm I struggled so much to find in modern fantasy. Some things happen just because, and some don't make a lot of sense, but it all falls within the frame we're given of 'fairy tale logic'. A thirteen year old boy being forced to fight a wolf to save his younger sisters is really something that is not cool, but the fact that it actually does affect Peter immediately afterwards to the point where Aslan begins to mentor him makes the scene worthwhile.

Rereading it made me realise that a lot of what I've been asking the fantasy genre is for is stuff that I don't actually want. I just want a novel with that mixture of innocence, whimsy, and knowing.

[Hunter Noventa]

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.

This line, and the lines that follow, tell you almost everything you need to know going into this particular series.