As we approach the launch of my fifth novel, Recommended for You, I thought it would be interesting to look back at how my books begin. Specifically, their first lines.
A first line does more than start a story. It sets intent. It tells the reader, consciously or not, why they should keep going. You cannot simply begin with routine, nor can you spend pages explaining the world before anything happens. The reader needs a reason to care from the very first words.
For a long time, I thought that if a sentence sounded good, it was enough. It took time to realise that a first line is a promise.
Here is how my five novels begin, and what I think of those openings in hindsight.
Never. Not in a thousand years. How could she possibly have imagined that it would end this way?
Under the Black Sand (2013)
The book begins with a murder, which is already an ending. “Never” is also the opposite of “always”, the final word of the novel. Structurally, it made sense. But does it truly pull the reader in? I am not sure. I would probably approach this differently today.
‘I want to be a proper journalist.’ Gunnar tried to ignore the clouds of smoke lingering in the air.
Blood and Rain (2017)
This line states intent. The book follows Gunnar’s attempt to become a journalist, and the second sentence introduces his discomfort with smoke, something difficult to avoid in the mid-1930s. By the middle of the novel, as his ideals erode and his life turns darker, he has started smoking himself.
It does what it is meant to do, but it is my least favourite opening. I am not convinced a new reader would immediately care about someone wanting to be a journalist. At that point, I was still learning.
The phone rang in an office in Palacio de la Isla, in Burgos, northern Spain. A man in military uniform was shuffling papers and looking at maps and, for a moment, ignored the intrusion.
Mont Noir (2023)
By my third novel, I felt more confident. This was the first time I consciously thought about what I wanted the opening line to achieve. The man is unnamed. He is important enough to ignore the ringing phone. The hope was that this would spark curiosity.
The novel could have opened elsewhere. With Celestina in Barcelona, or Frank in Amsterdam. But since Franco himself plays only a small role in the story, serving mainly as the catalyst for Celestina’s departure from Spain, this felt like the right place to begin. Without this phone call, none of the consequent events would have happened. But does it grab a reader?
The morning was grey, too dull for the events that were unfolding. At four o’clock in the morning, German troops had crossed the border and invaded the Netherlands.
A Sky Without Stars (2025)
I struggled with this beginning more than any other. I rewrote it repeatedly, aware by then of how much weight the opening carries. The contrast here is deliberate. A dull, quiet morning against an event that will upend countless lives.
In the opening scene, the protagonist buys plain wedding rings for a marriage that will never happen. By the end of the second chapter, Rotterdam has been destroyed, his future is in ruins, and routine becomes a fragile illusion. The novel follows five main characters, all facing the same historical moment, all making different choices for a future they hope will come.
The opening sentence reflects that tension, not just for the scene, but for the book as a whole.
The darkness was broken only by the soft glow coming from the phone. A notification, unseen in the dead of night. A silent rupture, a fault line that would fracture the ground beneath him.
Recommended for You (2026)
I once read that you should never start a novel with a wake-up scene. Strictly speaking, this is not one. Julian is not awake yet. What the opening establishes instead is quiet.
This is a quiet book. There are no chases, no guns, no villains in the traditional sense. What exists instead is a low, persistent menace. Julian lives a good life. Too good. A life without resistance or friction slowly becomes unbearable. Vera, his AI assistant, is endlessly kind, helpful, and attentive. The phone notification is a small disruption that exposes the fragility of that perfection and begins a collapse he struggles to control.
Five books, written over twelve years.
Different stories. Different beginnings.
A writer’s journey toward something resembling a craft.
Recommended for You is out 10 February.
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