How to Craft a Big Beginning

August 14, 2025

by Whitney Collins, fiction faculty

Back in the 1900s, when my friends and I were growing up relatively unplugged and easily entertained, we often played Mad Libs, a word game that prompted players to fill in the blanks of a half-completed story with random nouns, verbs, and adjectives. The result was always a creative and non-sensical tale that illustrated the power of word choice and surprise.

Fast-forward to the early 21st century, when I was no longer playing Mad Libs but was reading story submissions for literary magazines and writing my own fiction. At the time, I was having little luck getting published and also stumped by how many submissions I read for The Sun Magazine and The Carolina Quarterly (and later, while studying at Spalding, The Louisville Review) that were beautifully written but minimally compelling. I began to realize that scores of decent writers were taking too long to get to the point or serve up conflict. Too many 10-page stories, my own included, were getting interesting on page six or seven. 

As a submissions reader (who hated sending rejections) and a writer (who hated receiving them), I decided to start dissecting award-winning short stories to determine what they were doing differently. After intently reading several prize anthologies, I could see that successful stories were using tension wisely by using tension immediately. Time and again, these authors were cutting right to the chase, and even better, right to the quick, with bold beginnings. Their first words were either delightful or distressing, and instead of intricately building to action, the stories were, from the get-go, throwing readers into the thick of things.

These riveting opening paragraphs often packed lots into a small space: characters (main and supporting), inciting incidents, nemeses, idiosyncrasies, imagery. In addition, what wasn’t included was just as interesting as what was. Motives, outcomes, escape plans, personal histories—these were often nonexistent. What was left unsaid added to the tension of what was. There was incentive to turn the page.

Over the years, I’ve earmarked excellent short story openings, and below are four of my favorites. Take note of what is both revealed and concealed in these openings, how the authors handle characterization, setting, tone, and conflict. Take note of what makes you want to keep reading. 

The girls were searching Arlene’s room and had just come upon her journal. The girls were 31 and 32. Arlene was of a dowdy, unspecific age, their parents’ houseguest. She had arrived with the family’s city pastor, an Episcopal priest, who had been in a depression for a number of months because his lover had died. The priest spent most of his time in the garden, wearing only a bright red banana sling, his flappy body turning a magnificent somber brown.

—from “The Girls” by Joy Williams

In classic Williams fashion, this beginning supplies palpable humor, an unspecified problem, and striking detail. It also raises a litany of questions. Why are two women in their thirties snooping in a guest room? Are these sisters still living with their parents? Are they immature? Spoiled? Why is it specified that the priest is a “city pastor?” Does this imply the parents have a “country pastor?” A country home? Why is the houseguest’s dowdiness relevant? What could she possibly have written in her journal? What is the priest’s role and will his eccentricity matter? This beginning inspires a fun prompt: How many questions can you raise in an introductory paragraph?

And another:

During his twelve years in New York City, Bosun, who went by Bo, got into some bad business with an import-export company in Queens. It turned out the company was dealing in stolen goods, and Bo, who drove a truck for them, was eventually caught one winter on the bridge between Manhattan and New Jersey.

He would have very little memory of that moment other than the lights and falling snow. He would later be told that he leapt out of the truck and ran straight toward the bridge’s railing.

—from “Bosun” by Paul Yoon

In four riveting sentences, the reader is given criminal business, an arrest attempt, a suicide attempt, poor weather, a lapse in memory, a specific location, and a nickname. What is withheld? Motivations, support, reasons. A story that starts as such is not unlike a movie that begins with a murder, wherein the viewer is instantly engaged with the height of conflict before being provided context. Too often, writers start with backstory and work their way to tension. Here, Paul Yoon expertly illustrates how to do the opposite. This story inspires another prompt: Can you begin with an emergency, but give no hints as to what happened before or what will happen after?

And another:

I parked in the shadows behind the hospice center, and waited. I held a box of condoms on my lap, Magnum XLs. It was like being sixteen again, except this time I bought the condoms instead of relying on the boy. This time the boy was a man I had mistaken for someone I’d gone to junior high with when our paths first crossed two weeks before at the main entrance of the hospice center. I was coming, he was going. I thought he was Daniel McMurray so I stared longer than I should have, and he stared back. 

—from “Not-Daniel” by Deesha Philyaw

Philyaw begins this short masterpiece with the bold juxtaposition of condoms and hospice, supplying the reader with such contrast that curiosity will inevitably win out. Who wouldn’t want to read more? There’s love (maybe) sex (likely) and death (forthcoming)! In short: urgency. Try this related prompt: What two opposites, placed in an opening paragraph, might create irresistible suspense?

And a final one:

Sandy’s husband had been on the sofa ever since he’d been terminated three months ago. That day, three months ago, he’d come home looking pale and scared and with all of his work things in a box. "Happy Valentine’s Day," he said to Sandy and put a heart-shaped box of candy and a bottle of Jim Beam on the kitchen table. He took off his cap and laid that on the table, too. "I got canned today. Hey, what do you think’s going to happen to us now?"

—from “Preservation” by Raymond Carver

Carver is notorious for “zero endings,” but his powerful starts are just as superbly crafted. In this one, we have a man who’s been fired unexpectedly and sleeping (living?) on the couch ever since, hinting that in addition to employment problems, the man has marital one. Carver doesn’t even name the man; he just refers to him as “Sandy’s husband.” Also consider: Why is alcohol mentioned? Valentine’s Day? What does the man’s cap suggest? These details are intentional. Through them, Carver sets a tone of defeat and desperation, with love and hope potentially lost. Of course, readers must keep reading now! Try this related prompt: How can I use words and objects to set a compelling mood or tone?

Now, let’s circle back to this post’s start. What does any of this have to do with Mad Libs? Well, recall that the fun of that game is in word choice and surprise. The same is true for story intros. Using a Mad Libs-style approach, and inspired by the previous four examples, try the following word-listing exercise I’ve implemented in fiction workshops; the results have always been unforgettable.

MAD LIBS GENERATIVE EXERCISE:

First, list five or six CHARACTER options (you’ll write down more than you need for variety’s sake), from which you will pick a minimum of two for your opening paragraph. Examples: mother-in-law, Jungian psychologist, chemistry teacher, cat sitter, estranged cousin, salesman. 

Second, list five or six DAY options here, from which you will choose one. Examples: Christmas Eve, a 40th birthday, a divorce filing, a pregnancy testing, the anniversary of a death, the Bar exam. 

Third, list five or six INCIDENT options here, from which you will choose one (or perhaps two). Examples: broken leg, arrest for possession of drugs, tornado, a snake in the house, a breakup.

Fourth, list five or six UNEXPECTED OBJECT options here, from which you will choose one, maybe two. Examples: a taxidermy mouse, a telescope, a haunted babydoll, a Cuban cigar, a hermit crab, an overripe banana. 

Now, drawing inspiration from the randomness of Mad Libs, and the boldness of the above story excerpts, craft a short opening paragraph that employs your elements and hooks a reader. Here are two examples using the above method.

Example 1:

On Christmas Eve, our estranged cousin Emma announced she was running off to Nevada with her cat sitter, Mike. Mike had been arrested in April for possession of cocaine but had somehow escaped incarceration and was now set on redeeming himself by selling religion door to door. Emma stood flushed in the front hall when she told the family this, holding a small cage containing her pet hermit crab. No one knew what to say, but before she departed my mother offered her an overripe banana as a parting gift.

(Word choices: estranged cousin, cat sitter, Christmas Eve, arrest for drug possession, hermit crab, overripe banana.)

Example 2:

I had just taken the pregnancy test and was waiting the results when the doorbell rang. It was a sorry-looking salesman holding out a single Cuban cigar. The man had a crutch propped under his left arm and a large pink cast on his left leg that extended from his hip to his ankle. Behind him, the sky was nearly black; a terrible storm was coming. “These normally sell for forty dollars each,” he said, “but I’ll do you one better and let you have it today for twenty."

(Word choices: salesman, pregnancy test, Cuban cigar, a broken leg, tornado.)

As you can (hopefully) see, this exercise is typically fun for writers and readers. It demystifies the process a bit, and makes that dreaded blank page less intimidating. I’ve even found that students who are typically shy to share their work, often offer to read after this exercise, since the results are usually humorous or shocking, and, moreover, feel more magical than personal. There’s something very accessible about the “Mad Libs approach” that makes writing an opening paragraph game-like. I’m not promising Joy Williams or Paul Yoon or Deesha Philyaw or Raymond Carver results, but I am confident you’ll move the needle toward compelling with this approach. If not, there are always Mad Libs, which I have discovered still exist, proving wild, weird stories stand the test of time.

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Whitney Collins is the author of Ricky & Other Love Stories, which was longlisted for The Story Prize, and Big Bad, which won the Mary McCarthy Prize, a Gold Medal IPPY, and a Bronze Medal INDIES. Whitney has received a Pushcart Prize, a Pushcart Special Mention, a Best American Short Stories Distinguished Story, and the American Short(er) Fiction Prize.